


Temporal Overture

by dylovan



Category: Monty Python RPF
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 51,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2614031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dylovan/pseuds/dylovan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pythons feck about with ouija board. Shit goes down. Rather gay (☞ﾟ∀ﾟ)☞</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In My Life

"Eric?"

Eric looked up. He was sitting slouched in the corner. The floor was making his tailbone hurt. He scowled up at the man who'd been saying his name. 

It was Michael. His hazel eyes looked a bit worried. 

Eric glared at him even harder. 

"Eric, are you okay?" Michael said softly. 

Eric took a drink of his Heineken. "Does it matter?"

"This is my Halloween party, Eric," Mike said. "I want you to be happy." He sat down on the floor beside Eric and wrinkled his face up. "Doesn't sitting on the floor hurt your bum?"

Eric was silent. He shrugged and turned away from Mike. Mike just scooched around and sat facing him again. 

"Please tell me what's wrong, Eric..."

Eric finally looked up at him. "Nothing, Mike."

"It must be something." Michael's eyes looked so big and worried. 

But it was nothing. Sometimes Eric just got moods like this. Today was one of those days. 

Why'd he come to this stupid Halloween party anyways? Everyone here was loud and obnoxious. He didn't get any of these people. He was starting to think he didn't even get any of the other Pythons. 

"Actually..." Eric began. Michael started and sat up, ready to help. "Actually, I've got a bit of a headache. Do you have anywhere I could lie down?"

"Oh, sure, let's go upstairs to my room," Michael said. He helped Eric up and led him upstairs, through the crowd. It felt like all the people here were blindingly loud. He needed to leave. He wanted to stick his fingers in his ears and scream. 

"You don't look so good, Eric," Michael said. 

"Thanks, Mike." 

"No. I mean you're pale."

"I'm fine, I just need to lie down." All this noise and light made him feel like he wanted to die. 

He put on his best "normal person" face and followed Michael upstairs. He felt better almost immediately. It was dark and cool and quiet. His breathing slowed as Michael guided him into a bedroom and closed the door. 

Mike folded the covers on the bed back and helped Eric lie down, which made him feel like a cripple. "Hold on a moment," he said in a low voice, "I'll come back." He was back, with two aspirin and a glass of cold water. 

Eric eyeballed him with disgust. He didn't get how anyone could be so nice. It was ridiculous. 

"Here, take this, you'll feel better in no time," Mike said. He was staying very very quiet so as not to disturb Eric's "headache." The effect of this was Eric realizing that Mike wasn't getting on his nerves at all. Which of course annoyed the heck out of him. 

Eric took the aspirin and lay back down. Michael stood beside him. "Can I get you a coffee or anything?"

"I'm good, Mike."

"Are you sure? I could just—"

Eric smiled. "No, you've been very helpful already. I should be better in a bit. Thank you."

"Oh, you're welcome, Eric." When Mike said you're welcome he sounded like Eric had given him a gift. All excited and pleased. "Um, bye!" He stumbled away and closed the door. 

It was almost completely quiet in the bedroom. Eric rubbed his temples. The only sounds were the house settling as the night grew cooler and Rubber Soul playing in the distance, downstairs. Eric let out a big deep breath and relaxed. Even if Mike was annoyingly kind and cute, he still had good music taste. 

There are places I remember  
All my life, though some have changed  
Some forever, not for better  
Some have gone and some remained

Eric reached into his pocket and pulled out a joint and a lighter. He definitely wasn't a stoner or anything, he just needed it sometimes to calm him down. 

It did work. He took a couple of puffs and felt completely serene. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the ebb and flow of his own breath. He felt like he didn't have any grudges or cares or responsibilities at all. It was wonderful. 

After a minute he felt hungry. He went back downstairs.

He tallied off the people he knew. Graham and John were sitting on a couch near the steps, silently judging everyone. In the dining room, both the Terries were at the table. Terry Jones had a ouija board and was explaining it to Terry Gilliam. Mike was in the kitchen, putting the icing on some cookies with his wife Helen. 

"Hey," Eric said. "Whatcha doin, Mikey?"

"Just finishing these up." Mike smiled sweetly. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he had flour on his nose. 

What a dork. He's icing little pumpkins into the cookies. God, he's so cute...Eric shook the intrusive thought away. He told himself to get a grip. 

"Can I have one?" Eric reached out to the plate. 

"Oh, Eric," Mike moaned. 

Eric ate a cookie. "Mm, Michael, you're a good cook."

"Well, Helen did most of the work." Mike smiled at his wife. 

"I just helped," Helen said. 

"You two are so sweet I'm going to get diabetes," Eric said. 

Michael rolled his eyes. "Go on, Eric, you can have more cookies when we're done."

"Okay, love!" Eric said. He wandered over to watch the Terries. 

Jonesy had just finished showing the American how the ouija board was supposed to work. Terry Gilliam stared contemplatively at the board. 

"Isn't it dangerous to summon ghosts?" he asked. 

Jonesy shrugged. "Not really. Spirits can't hurt you. I think it's illegal...Oh, hello, Eric, care to join us?"

"Why not?" Eric slid into a seat. "I haven't done this in ages."

"Okay," said Terry J, "everyone put your hands on the planchette." They all did. "Now ask it a question."

"Uh, what stocks should I buy?" Terry Gilliam asked the board. 

At first nothing happened. Then the planchette started to move. The three men's eyes followed it intently. 

The planchette spelled DON'T BE SO BORING. 

"Ha," Eric said. Terry G glared. 

"What's your name?" Terry J asked. 

THERE ARE SOME WHO CALL ME...TIM.

"Bloody hell," Eric moaned. "Who's doin' that?"

Both the Terries shook their heads. Eric glared at them suspiciously. 

"Okay, spirit, why are you here?" Eric asked. 

There was a huge WHAM sound. Eric felt like he'd blacked out. If the scene had been viewed by an outsider, it would have looked like all the people had been completely frozen in place. 

Eric went unconscious. 

(to be continued ¯\\_(๏ o ๏)_/¯ )


	2. The Long and Winding Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they are lost in the woods. also everyone is vaguely gay ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The sound of water rushing in a stream. The smell of sweet flower pollen in the air. The choking feeling of humidity lying heavily upon Eric's chest. 

Oh god, where am I? Did I pass out last night?

Eric decided to answer his own question. He opened his eyes and winced. 

It looked like he was lying in the countryside. There was a forest nearby. Wild flowers covered the ground. The sky was full of clouds. 

"Urgh," Eric grumbled. He struggled to his feet. "Hello? Anyone there?"

A brunet head poked out of the field a few feet away from Eric. It was Michael. He looked dreadfully confused. 

"Eric?" he said. "What's going on?"

"I dunno. The last thing I remember I was at your party messing around with a ouija board. Next thing I know I'm waking up here, wherever here is."

"Oh, Eric," Michael groaned. He rubbed his temples. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to play with ouija boards?"

"Well, yeah, but I never took it seriously..."

Michael sighed. "Oh, well," he said. "I suppose we'd better make the best of the situation. What a lovely field this is, look at these columbines!" He plucked a pink frilly flower and smelled it. "Hey, isn't it nice out here?"

It started to rain. 

"Great," Eric grumbled. "You'd better not say anything else, Mike, you've jinxed it."

Someone else sat up in the field, further away. Judging by the height, it was John Cleese. 

"John, John!" Michael yelled. He waved at John. The tall man stood up and stalked over to Mike and Eric. He looked down at them. 

"Now which one of you imbeciles is responsible for this?" John said. 

Eric pointed at Mike. 

"It was the ouija board, I think," Michael said. "They were messing around at the party with one. We've all been transported here."

"Wherever here is," Eric added. 

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to play with ouija boards?" John said incredulously, lifting an eyebrow. 

"Jesus, yeah, okay?! I'm stupid, I get it! Anyways it wasn't my idea, it was Jonesy's," Eric said. 

"I should have known it." A portentous and dark cloud of gloom seemed to drift across John's stern countenance.

Michael rushed up to him. "Please, John, don't do anything rude..."

John fumed as Michael attempted to soothe the beast. "It's okay, John! He didn't mean it! It's not that bad..."

"TERRY!" John howled. 

Someone stood up in the field. "Wha?" called out an American-accented voice. 

"Not you! The other one!"

Someone else stood up in the field. "Wot?" grumbled a Welsh-accented voice. 

"I'll have your head on a platter, you insolent git! You conniving little idiot blighter! You absolute festering twat!"

"Sorry!" Terry yelled. "I don't even know what I did! Where am I?"

"We think the ouija board brought us here," Mike explained. "Not that it's anyone's fault! It was really all my fault, I should have warned you. I'm so sorry." His bottom lip began to tremble and his eyes welled up with tears. "I'm sorry! W-will you ever be able to forgive me?!"

"Of course, Mike, you didn't do anything wrong," John said, using that gentle tone he only used on Michael. He placed one of his big hands on the smaller man's shoulder and rubbed it a bit. "Now, Jonesy on the other hand..."

"It wasn't my fault!"

"It wasn't anyone's fault!" Michael said. "Except mine, of course. But don't blame anyone! Except me..."

A loud groan came from somewhere close. "Waking up hungover in a muddy field, for the fifth time this week? Someone up there must hate me."

"Graham!" Michael called. "Where are you?"

Graham stumbled over to join the group. Michael explained the situation to him. 

"Impossible," Graham said. He fumbled in his pocket for his pipe and tobacco. 

"What d'you mean, impossible?" Terry G said. "We're here, ain't we?"

"The ouija board couldn't have taken us here," Graham said flatly. "There's no such thing as spirits or devils or witchcraft or any of that."

"Then why are we all here?" Eric asked. 

"Well," Graham began, "when a mommy and a daddy love each other very much—"

"No, I mean here. Like we're all here and no one knows why," Eric said. 

"A question posed by philosophers throughout the ages..."

"Oh, Gray, you know what I mean, now fuckin' answer me!"

"Eric!" Mike whispered reproachfully. 

"I dunno, but it couldn't have been the ouija board," Graham said. "Musta been one hell of a party last night, then."

"I don't have parties like that, where people wake up in a field with no memory of how they got there!" Michael said. "I have nice get-togethers! With cheese and wine and soft tasteful music and nothing offensive or rude, at all!"

"Then why'd you invite John?" Terry J asked. 

"Why, you disgusting pustule of a man—" John began. 

"Everyone calm down!" Terry G said. "Why don't we just walk until we see a road and we can tell where we are?"

"I hate to say he's right..." John said. 

"But he is," Michael said. "That's a very sensible idea, Terry. We'd all like to thank you for being productive."

"Unlike some people," John hissed at Terry Jones. 

They all traipsed off through the bracken. At first, they were pretty cheerful. Even though they were in the middle of nowhere in the rain with no memory of how they got there, they were part of a group. 

Gradually, however, the playful banter turned into sulky pointed remarks and aggressive silence. They'd been walking for a long time and there was no sign of anything but endless fields ahead. 

"Well, let's walk the other way, then," said Mike. He turned around and everyone followed him back to where they'd woken up. In a while they could see the forest, too. Wordlessly, they headed into it. 

There was still no sign of civilization to be seen. The forest grew thicker as they got deeper into it and pretty soon they were traveling at an impossibly slow rate and having to move fallen logs out of their path all the time. 

"I have to go pee-pee," Eric moaned. 

"I'm cold!" said Terry Gilliam. 

"I wanna sit down, my legs hurt really really bad," Terry J said. 

"Shut UP!" John yelled at him.

"John, I wanna sit down, my legs are starting to hurt," Mike mumbled. 

"Oh, certainly. Let's stop right here," John said. "We all need a rest anyway."

They all sat down. John put his jacket down so Mike wouldn't have to sit on the soaking wet ground. 

"I think we need a different plan," Eric said. He was so cold his teeth were clacking together like castanets. 

"We could split up," Terry J said. 

"That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard in my entire life you ignorant pompous buffoon," John snapped. 

"We could split up," said Mike. 

"I think that's a brilliant idea, Mikey love," John said. 

Jonesy rolled his eyes. 

"I don't think it's so great, actually," Eric said. "Look at this forest. D'you know how easily we could get lost?"

"He's right," Mike said. "I guess we just keep looking. We have to come along civilization at some point, right?"

They all got up and started walking again. The trees filtered out most of the rain, but it was still nasty out. Everyone was hungry and confused. 

"Gray?" Terry J said. 

"Yes?" said Graham. 

"All this 'supernatural beings don't exist' stuff is great, but..." He trailed off. 

"But what?" said the taller man. 

"But what if the ouija board took us here?" Terry said. "I mean, I've never been here before. Where are we?"

"There's a logical explanation for all of this," Graham said. "Trust me."

The Terries looked at each other dubiously. 

"I'm sure of it!" Graham said. "We can't have been spirited away by a magical ouija board. Magic isn't real."

"What d'you think, Eric?" Terry Gilliam asked Eric.

"Wha?" Eric said. "Oh. Well, I believe in everything until it's disproven."

"Oh, boo, you agnostic prat," Graham said. 

"Guys, look, it's not raining anymore!" Mike smiled sunnily. 

"Well, that's better, at least," Terry Jones said. 

John tripped over a rock, yelled, and went flying. He smashed into the ground. All six feet and five inches of him curled into a ball and quivered. 

"Owwwwh! My knee!" John swore under his breath. 

Michael rushed over. "John, what's wrong? Are you hurt?!"

"No, no, fine, it's nothing," John said through gritted teeth. 

"Great, now we're stuck here," Eric moaned.

"Let me see your leg," Michael said. He rolled John's trousers leg up and winced. John's leg was all scratched up and it looked swollen and bruised already. 

"Ew, ew, blood," Jonesy moaned. He felt faint. 

"Pull yourself together, man!" Gilliam yelled. He smacked Jones across the face. 

"Ow! What'd you do that for?!"

"I'm fine!" John was saying to Mike. 

"No you're not. Look at your knee. And your ankle!"

"Look, I can walk." John pulled himself to his feet. He attempted to take a step. His leg folded under him and he grimaced. 

"Sit down!" Michael yelled. 

John plopped onto the ground and scowled. 

"Graham, why don't you come over and look at it?" Michael said. "Get the old stethoscope out."

Graham rolled his eyes. He bent in front of John. 

"Bend it?" Graham said. 

John did, with some difficulty. 

"Well, it looks like you've torn your medial collateral ligament, not broken your leg or anything, with some laceration and contusions," said Graham.

"In English, please," Terry G said. 

"He's sprained his knee, and scratched his leg up," Graham said, looking askance at Terry G. 

"In English, PLEASE!" Gilliam yelled. 

"BENDY LEG BIT GO OWIE!" Graham shrieked. 

"He's torn his medial collateral ligament?!" Terry Gilliam looked horrified. 

Graham barely restrained himself from flinging himself at the man and tearing him to bits. "Yes," he said through gritted teeth. "John, I'd rest up and put ice on it, if I were you."

"WE'RE STUCK IN THE MIDDLE OF A FUCKING FOREST, GRAHAM!" John howled. 

"I don't know! Put a frog on it! Frogs are cold!"

"If you touch frogs they die!" Michael said. "We can't kill a frog. That's so mean!"

"Guys, let's just keep walking and drag John with us," Jonesy suggested. "We're bound to come across civilization somewhere."

"That would be easy if he wasn't so big," Graham said. "It would probably take three of us to carry him and still maintain any speed. How are we supposed to do that?"

John was hiding his face. Michael crouched in front of him. "John? What's the matter?"

"We're probably all going to die out here," John muttered. "All because I fell down and broke my stupid bloody leg."

"Not broken, sprained," Graham corrected. 

"SHUT! UP!" John howled. "And now we're trapped out here and we're all going to die and it's my fault!"

"No it isn't!" Michael said. "That could have happened to anyone."

John covered his face. Mike couldn't tell if he was seething with rage or weeping. Maybe both. "Just leave me here, okay? I'll just slow you down. I want you all to be safe and you can't be safe if I'm around."

"Oh my god, he finally had a good idea," Terry J murmured to Eric. Eric sniggered. 

"We can't leave you, John!" Michael flung his arms around the tall man. "We're your friends! Friends don't leave friends with a broken, I mean sprained leg in the middle of the forest."

He looked around. Everyone had disappeared through the trees. 

"Guys, come back!" Mike yelled. 

"You should leave too," John said quietly. 

"I'm not leaving you. GUYS!"

The rest of the Pythons slowly trudged back.

"What is it?" Graham said irritably. 

"You can't leave him!" Mike said. 

"Watch us," Eric snapped. 

"Guys! GUYS! Look, lemme explain something," Michael said. "We know John can be rude and harsh and critical—"

Terry Jones loudly blew a raspberry. The rest of them snickered. 

"Shut up, Terry!" Mike yelled. "You interrupted me!"

They all went quiet. When Michael Palin, the nicest man in Britain, shouted, you knew the shit was about to hit the fan. 

"Look," Mike said. "I was saying, sure he can be rude and harsh and critical. But what you don't know is that he's even more critical of himself. He thinks that he means so little to you that you'd just walk away and leave him there! And then you actually go and do it! Can't you see how much you're hurting him?"

The others all stared at the spectacle. 

"We can't leave John here." Michael turned and sat down in front of John. "We can't leave him here any more than, you know, you can walk away and leave your head behind. He's our leader." Mike reached out and clasped John's hand in one of his much smaller ones. "We need him. We wouldn't even know each other if it weren't for John."

Everyone was silent. Then Graham said: "You know, Mike does have a point. Even if he's going about making it like a raging queer."

"Yeah," Eric said. "We do need John."

John removed his hands from his face and looked into Mike's eyes. Mike could practically read his mind. 

You need me? Really?

Mike nodded. Absolutely. 

"Alright," Mike said, "Eric and Graham, come over here and help get John up. You two are almost as tall as he is so you'll be able to support him."

Graham, Eric, and Mike helped pull John up. Graham and Eric stood on each side of him and he wrapped his arms around both their shoulders. 

"Good, good," Mike said. "The two Terries and I will go on ahead and move any rocks or branches or stuff out of the way so you don't trip any more. Got it? We should make good progress like this, lads! We'll be home and dry in no time!" With that, he went up ahead to clear a path. Terry and Terry hesitantly went to help him. 

"My, he's so authoritative," Graham said simperingly. "I find that attractive in a man. Willingness to take the dominant hand."

"Shut up," John advised. 

Graham raised an eyebrow. "Ohh, mad because I'm stealing your man, Cleesey?"

"He's not mine!" John said. 

"Yeah he is. You're pining over him. I can tell. Those long, soulful gazes into each other's eyes—"

"Shut UP!" John said. "You disgusting baboon!

"Calm that mouth, John, I'm carrying you. We wouldn't want a little accident to happen, would we?"

"You can't do that! Didn't you ever take the Hippocratic oath? Never harm people, all that stuff?"

"I never actually got that far," Graham said. 

"Well, you can't drop me," John said. "Mike wouldn't be too happy about that."

"Ooooh, MIKE! We mustn't do it if Mikey doesn't want it. That's right. Why don't you run up to Mike and tell him what a big mean bully Graham's being?"

"SHUT UP!" John bellowed. 

"Could you guys stop arguing for like, one second?" Eric said. "The sexual tension between you two is like really annoying."

"What tension?" Graham fondled John's bum. 

"Shut up," Eric and John both said.

"Well, fine," Graham said. "No one ever listens to me anyways," he said passive-aggressively. "It's not like my opinions matter."

"Damn right," John said through gritted teeth. 

"I wonder what it would be like to be Mike and the Terries," Eric mused. "They never argue."

Cut to Mike and Terry-squared. They were picking up rocks and sticks. Michael seemed cheerful; Jones and Gilliam less so. 

"I wonder what it would be like to be Eric and Gray and John," Michael mused. "They argue all the time."

"I'd have a heart attack," Terry Gilliam said. "I hate that kinda stuff."

"I'm very non-confrontational," Terry J said. He threw a wet tree branch aside. "Except when it comes to John. Then all bets are off."

"Well, I can't blame you." Mike chuckled. "He is a bit stubborn."

"Stubborn?" Terry J snorted. "Stubborn doesn't even begin to describe it. He's a rude, pretentious, argumentative git!" He punched a tree. "Oww!"

"Just a mild contusion!" Graham yelled at Jonesy from behind them. 

"I guess he is all of those things," Mike said. "But can't you see the good in him?"

"Well, he is...um..." Both the Terries stared at each other. 

"Sometimes he doesn't talk for a couple minutes," Terry Gilliam said. 

"He makes this really funny noise when you step on his feet," Jonesy said. 

"Guys, he's really a nice guy!" Mike said. "He's honest and gentle and guiding and...dominant..."

"Excuse me, are we talking about the same guy?" Jonesy said. 

"You have to break through the hard, rough exterior. Inside, he's a great person!" Mike said. "Like one of those sparkly geode things."

"Or your cooking," Terry Jones said. "Minus the great part."

"He's nice," Mike said sweetly. 

"I know what's going on..." Gilliam said. "You've got a crush on John!"

"I don't!" Michael blushed. 

"You do! You love John!"

Michael turned even pinker. His eyelashes fluttered as he looked down coyly and giggled. "Well, maybe a tiny bit..."

"When's the wedding?" Gilliam smirked. 

Michael rolled his eyes. "Look, it's nothing like that..."

He noticed that Terry Jones was trailing behind and looking a bit down. "Sorry, Gil, I wanna find out what's wrong with Tezza." 

He sloshed through the mud and walked with Terry Jones. 

"Hi," Mike said. "Er. Lovely day for it, innit?"

"What, for picking up grotty sticks and stuff off the ground?" Terry said. "I suppose it is rather fitting."

Michael sighed. "Look, Terry, what's wrong?"

"Uh, nothing," Terry murmured.

"I know something's wrong. Was it something I said? I'm sorry, Terry, I really am. Please tell me what's wrong!" Mike was nearly sobbing. 

"It's okay, Mike, it really is," Terry said. "It's just...I dunno. Why d'you like John?"

"Oh," Michael said, discomfited. "Just because...well, it's hard to explain, I don't know. Why?"

"I just...I thought we had something special," Terry said hesitantly. 

"Oh, Jonesy, don't think I don't like you—"

"What am I supposed to think? You leave me and you go running around, writing sketches and doing God knows what with that tall sarcastic asshole over there. What about me, Michael? Did those passionate nights back at Oxford mean nothing to you?"

"No, of course they did!" Mike said. "It's just, I'm moving on with my life. And maybe I want to spend some time with John. It doesn't mean I've forgotten you, I just..." He hesitated. "People change, Terry. Change is life's only constant and to think otherwise is just fooling yourself. You'll always have a special place in my heart. You know that. I'm...I'm sorry I've upset you."

"No, it's fine," Terry said sullenly. "I get it. You're moving on." He sighed. "I wish I could."

"I'm really very sorry."

"I wish you weren't so nice about it," Jonesy said. "I wish you could yell and get defensive and curse at me. Instead you're just reasoning with me. I feel like I'm the one at fault here."

"Neither of us is at fault," Michael said. He rolled a largish rock off the path. "All good things must come to an end."

"I wish they didn't have to."

"Oh, don't cry!" Michael wailed. "I could never forgive myself if you cried. Please, Jonesy, we can get through this—"

"What's he got that I haven't?" Terry said. "Is it that he's tall? I could be tall. I heard they can do this thing where they break your legs and put them in braces and—"

"Don't do that," Michael said. "Don't go breaking your legs for someone who'd leave you." He looked down. "I don't deserve you, Terry, you're too nice."

"No I'm not," Terry whimpered. "I'm just selfish. And an idiot for thinking I could hold onto someone like you."

"Oh, Terry..." Michael started crying too. 

Terry Gilliam ran over. "Uh, guys, I don't mean to interrupt your breakup, but look over there."

There was a massive stone cliff perpendicular to their path. It stretched for what looked like miles to either side. The group staggered to a halt and looked up at it. 

"Well," Eric said, "there's that."

"What way should we go?" Michael looked at everyone else. They didn't know either.

"Actually," said Graham, "I've got an idea. I've been tracking the sun's position—"

"Sure you have, you great slimy nerd," said Eric. 

"Shut up," said Graham. "I've been tracking the sun's position and I think sunset will arrive in an hour or two. We should make camp and continue our searching tomorrow."

"Wow, where'd the day go?" Gilliam said. "I thought we were only searching for a couple of hours."

"As did I, at first," Graham said, "but I think our fault lay in our assuming we woke up here in the morning. It could have been any time of day and, judging by my calculations, it was probably four PM."

"We should find something to eat," John said. "I'll bet we're all hungry. We could try to build a fire."

"Good idea," Graham said. "I think we should make camp here. We can build a couple of lean-to's against the cliff face and try to get some sleep."

"And we need food," Eric added. 

"Okay. Eric and Graham find food, the two Terries will get branches to build shelter, and Mike and I will build the fire," John said. 

"What, we're just gonna do what he says?" Terry Jones said.

"You just don't like getting wood," Eric said. 

"Well I—that was some sort of rude pun, wasn't it?" Jonesy said. 

"I think actually it was more of a play on words," Michael said. 

"I hate you all," Jonesy grumbled. "C'mon, Terry." They both trampled off into the forest. 

Graham and Eric went off to get food. Michael helped John sit down and then got some sticks to build a fire.

"I think it goes like this," Mike said, arranging the sticks into a little teepee. "Do we have any matches?"

"Here you go." John flung a packet of matches over. 

Michael lit the fire. It smoked and sputtered and then managed to catch on to the damp wood.

"Yay," Michael whispered. "I'll go and fetch some sticks and stuff, okay? If you need anything just give me a yell."

John paused in the process of lighting a cigarette and nodded. 

Meanwhile, Graham and Eric's search for sustenance had proven literally unfruitful. 

"D'you think we can eat these berries?" Eric asked, staring doubtfully at a bush with tiny black berries growing on it.

"I wouldn't unless you were sure," Graham advised. 

Eric nodded. "I'm really hungry. I probably wouldn't die if I ate just one, right?"

Graham shrugged. "I dare you."

Eric stood up straight and sighed. "I'm staaaaarving," he moaned. 

"That's hyperbole."

"You're hyperbole," Eric said. "I dunno why John stuck us together. Why'd I listen to him...Hey, look, dandelions! I know you can eat dandelion leaves."

They both kneeled on the ground and pulled up as many dandelion leaves as possible, trying to ignore how ridiculous the situation was. 

"We can't survive off these, though," Graham said. "We have to get something with protein in it or our bodies will begin to digest our own muscles and then we'll be all atrophied and we don't want that, do we, little Eric?"

Eric laughed. "I'm like one inch shorter than you."

"What d'you bet on that?" Graham said. 

"Uh, I've got a quarter in my pocket," Eric said. Graham did too. 

They stood up back to back and tried to measure with a twig. 

"I told you!" Eric said. "I'm 6'1". Give me my money."

Graham rolled his eyes and tossed him the quarter. 

"We could try and make snares," Eric suggested after a while. 

"Do you know how?" Graham asked. 

"Nope. You?"

"Nah," said Graham. 

"Hey, hold on a sec," Eric said. "I think I hear rushing water."

They both stood perfectly still. They could hear a stream nearby.

"That way," Graham said, pointing. They rushed over and found it. 

It was a little stream, a foot or two deep, surrounded by rushes and things. When they looked in they could see fish swimming about. 

"D'you have a pointed stick?" Eric murmured. 

"Don't start with that."

"No, seriously!" Eric said. "We can stab the fishes with a stick. That's what they do in Africa and places."

Graham looked around for a stick. He found a suitable sized one and tried to sharpen it against a sharp rock. "Here you go," he said. He gave the stick to Eric. "This sounds entertaining."

Eric took off his shoes and socks and rolled his pant legs up. He went out into the water.

"Very cold," he reported. 

Graham smirked. 

Eric frowned into the water. He tried to stab a fish and missed. Then again. He growled in frustration. "I'm aiming right at them! I don't get it!"

"That's because of refraction," Graham said. 

Eric raised an eyebrow. 

"The water has a different refractive index than air," Graham said. "Basically, light moves a lot slower in water than in air, because the molecules are packed in tighter, so it looks like the light is bending. But it's not really. Anyways, it makes it look like the fish is in a different spot. You're hitting the false image of the fish, not the real fish."

Eric splashed Graham with cold icky water. 

"Oooh, my trousers are slightly wet," Graham said. "Whatever shall I do?"

"When I catch this fish I'm going to hit you over the head with it." Eric unsuccessfully stabbed at the water again. 

"When?" Graham said. "You don't seem to be working very effectively."

"Well, you come here and see how good you are at it!"

"Fine!"

Graham stripped his socks and shoes off and rolled up his trouser legs. He tiptoed into the water. 

"Quite cold," he observed. 

Eric gave him the stick. "Go ahead."

Graham stared into the water. He raised the stick above his head and brought it down in a majestically sweeping arc...and missed. 

"What the devil," he said. 

"I told you," Eric said. 

"Shut up, I'm getting the hang of it," Graham said. He stabbed the water again. And again. "Something's wrong with this!" he announced. "My stick's broken!"

"Maybe we should try and catch them with our hands," Eric said. "It certainly couldn't be any worse than what we're doing now."

"Okay," Graham said. 

They reconnaissanced on the bank and decided to strip the rest of their clothes off (except their underpants) so they wouldn't get wet. There was a heap of suit jackets and shirts and trousers on the riverbank. They both got in the water. 

"So cold," Eric moaned. "My penis. My penis is doing something weird." 

"I don't want to hear about your wang," Graham said. "Look, let's just catch a fish as quickly as possible. I don't like this any more than you do."

"Gray, I think my balls are turning inside out. I don't like this! I wanna go home!"

Graham splashed Eric. "Shut up!"

Eric splashed him back. "No, you!"

They splashed each other until they were both soaked. They were both giggling a bit, too. 

"Alright, we have to do this!" Eric said. "I'm not going to be completely frozen for nothing."

Eric tried to grab a fish and fell into the water. Graham tried several times and got very angry and ended up throwing rocks at the fish. 

One of his rocks actually hit a fish on the head. It was stunned and didn't move for a second. Eric, who was still sitting and shivering in the freezing water, saw his opportunity and grabbed the stunned fish. He instinctively held it tight to his chest. 

"Gray!" he yelled. "Gray! A fish!"

The fish leapt out of Eric's arms, but Graham caught it. He squished it. He immediately started squealing like a little girl who's seen a mouse. "Eric! It's moving! Eric, do something!"

Eric got to his feet and clambered onto the riverbank, cutting his leg and his right hand quite badly on a sharp rock, but not minding. "Throw it!"

Graham yelled and tried to toss the fish. It soared through the air and was very confused. Eric tried to jump and catch it but fell over. Graham tripped over a rock and fell into the water and managed to cut his forehead open on a rock. The fish almost flopped from the riverbank back into the water, but Eric grabbed it and held it aloft. 

"It's still moving!" he yelled. "It's so slimy! Eeew!"

"Kill it!" Graham roared. Water was streaming out of his nose. "Kill the damn thing!"

"AAAAH!" Eric sobbed as he beat the fish's head against a tree. "AAAH! IT'S SO SLIMY! GRAYYYY!"

Gray wallowed out of the water like some sort of evolutionary creature that was just learning to walk. "KILL IT!"

"AHHHH!"

The fish expired.

The air grew silent. Eric stared down at the fish. His hands were covered with blood that belonged to both him and the fish. At first, his face was stony. Then he slowly broke into excitement. 

"We did it!" He held the fish up like a prize again. "Graham, we did it!"

They both got up and yelled and beat their chests and danced around. 

"We did it!" Graham yelled. "We killed it! I killed it!"

"I feel so alive!" Eric yelled. "Take that, Mother Nature!"

They put the fish on a pile of wet leaves to keep it cool, and painted stripes on their faces with its blood. Then they went back into the water, the adrenaline rush keeping them warm. In fifteen or twenty minutes they managed to catch two more fish by stunning them with rocks, grabbing them out of the water, and then vehemently beating their heads in. 

"That was actually rather fun," Eric admitted, happily looking down at their fishes. "And now we've got a lovely dinner."

"You're starting to sound like Palin."

"Well, it's true!" Eric said. "And don't tell me you weren't enjoying that. You were screaming, 'Kill the fish! Kill it!'"

"That's slander," Graham said. He grinned. 

They pulled their clothes on and kept walking, shivering. 

"I wish George were here," Eric muttered. 

"George who?"

"Oh. George Harrison. He'd know what to do." Eric sighed. "He'd know what plants to eat, and where to find them. And what plants not to eat. And how to identify which mushrooms are hallucinogenic."

"That could be useful," Graham admitted. 

"He's just, like, entwined with nature. And I'm so out of place. I remember..." He hesitated. 

"What?"

"I remember he gave me this yellow flower to eat. A lily. A day lily, that's it," Eric said. 

"Did you hallucinate?" Graham said. 

"No! It was good. I wonder if we could find any."

"What do they look like?"

"Yellow spikey flower on a long stem."

"Like that?" Graham pointed to a clump of lilies.

"Yeah! Great!" Eric rushed over and started pulling the flowers off the stems. 

"I don't want to eat a flower," Graham whined. "And I'm cold."

"You'll eat the bloody flower!" said Eric. "It's got nutrients and stuff."

Graham rolled his eyes. 

They walked back down the way they'd came. The sun was beginning to near the horizon and they figured this was enough food. 

The trees threw shade over them and a cool evening breeze began to blow. They both shivered. They were cold and dripping wet and chilled to the bone. 

That wasn't the only reason Graham was shivering, though. He was craving gin. He needed a drink so bad he thought he'd sell his soul for one. His head was throbbing and the chill didn't help. 

Stay strong. Stay strong for Eric, you can't let him see how weak you really are. 

Eric noticed his teeth clacking together. "You okay, Gray?"

"Yeah," Graham said. "Just cold."

Eric looked over. Graham looked terrible. He had huge bags under his eyes and he looked like he was about to fall over and/or throw up.

Eric reached into his jacket and pulled out a flask of something. Brandy, to be more precise. He'd wanted to save it, but Graham looked like he needed it more. 

He pushed it into the taller man's hand. Graham looked down at it, then into Eric's eyes. 

Eric nodded. "Stay warm, Gray," he murmured. 

Graham fumbled to unscrew the cap and took a long drink. He wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to repay Eric, but he didn't worry about that. He just needed to feel that warm buzzing in his head. It would make everything alright again. 

Eric looked down. He didn't know if he'd done the right thing or not. But he couldn't see Graham suffer like that. 

They reached the cliff pretty soon. The scene had changed quite a bit. Mike, Terry J and Terry G were working on finishing a lean-to. The other one had already been finished. It was made out of branches and sticks and rocks, but it actually looked rather sturdy. 

Between the two lean-to's a roaring fire had been built. John was poking it with a stick and feeding it. John's injured leg was propped up on a log. 

"Wow," Eric said. Graham stuffed the mostly empty flask into his pocket and wiped his mouth on his damp sleeve, eyes watering. "This is practically civilization!"

"The boys have done quite a good job," Michael said, smiling benevolently. "Terry Gilliam seems to be something of an architect as well as an animator. And the fire should scare off any animals, as well as keeping us nice and warm during the night. The skies look fairly clear and the temperature probably isn't going to dip very much more, so if we wrap up well we should be able to get a good night's sleep and be nice and warm and dry in the morning. Did you find any food?"

"Lilies and dandelion leaves and fishes," said Eric. "Show them the fishes, Graham. Go on."

Graham put the fish on the ground and unwrapped them from the wet leaves. 

"Brilliant!" Michael said. "You're wonderful, both of you." 

He didn't comment on Graham's glassy eyes and shaky hands, or all the blood they were both covered in. 

"Let's get these cooked up," he said. "John's got his pocketknife. Who knows how to carve a fish?"

"I'll do it," John said. "I don't want to be a burden."

"Wow, he's cooperating," Eric murmured. 

Michael gave John the fish. "Now, why're you two all wet?"

"We fell in the stream," Graham said. He seemed to be reviving as his system absorbed the alcohol. "Sorry."

"You can dry off in front of the fire," said Michael. 

They took their jackets off and warmed themselves in front of the fire. Eric wrung out his overly long hair and ruffled it in the smoke. He would smell awful, but at least he'd be warm.

When John finished gutting the fish they put them on rocks and shoved them into the fire. Eric separated all the petals off the lilies. 

"Eat one," he said to Graham. 

Graham shook his head. 

"C'mon," Eric pleaded. "It's yummy!" He ate one. 

"Fine." Graham rolled his eyes and ate a petal. His eyes narrowed, then widened. "Hey, not bad."

"I told you, ya stubborn bugger." Eric smiled. 

When dinner was almost cooked, they gathered around the fire. 

"It smells good," Terry G said. "I'm so hungry. I haven't eaten in, like, forty years."

"More like five hours," Graham said. 

"Basically the same," Gilliam said. 

"You Americans," Graham said. 

"Hey, don't judge an entire nation based on the actions of one individual," Terry G said. "Especially not if it's me."

Michael gave everyone some food and they sat around the fire. After they ate Eric remembered the tiny remains of the joint he'd had last night. He lit it on the flames and passed it around. Everyone drew from it wordlessly. There wasn't enough left for anyone to get really stoned, but it was okay, they were all insanely tired anyway. 

They were all nearly relaxed as the sun went down, and in Graham's case a bit sozzled. They automatically went Cambridge men into one lean-to, Oxford (and Terry Gilliam) into the other. Michael and John sat by the fire after the others had curled up and fallen asleep. 

Michael yawned. He looked at John. John saw his eyes shining in the firelight and looked down, self-conscious. 

"Oh, John, no one's attended to your leg yet, have they?" Mike said. 

John shook his head. 

"I'll do something about it." Mike rolled John's trousers leg up again and winced. John's leg looked even more swollen and gross now. 

Mike took off his jacket, then his shirt. He ripped the shirt into bits, looked thoughtful for a second, then dipped one of the bits into a puddle of water and started trying to clean out John's leg.

"Ow, ow, ow," John moaned. 

"Shh," Mike said. "We don't want it to get infected."

"You're probably making it infected with that gross water."

"It's not gross, it was perfectly clear." But Mike tried to be a teeny bit more gentle. 

Mike finished cleaning John's wound and started wrapping more strips of his shirt around it. "When you sprain your ankle or something, you're supposed to put a tensor bandage on it, but I obviously don't have one so this will have to do." He finished wrapping up John's leg. "It doesn't hurt or feel tingly or anything, does it?"

John moved his leg a bit. "No, it's good."

"That's good." Mike smiled sweetly. He went to get up, but lost his balance by tripping over a log in the dark and landed in John's arms. John caught him. 

"Oh, sorry," Mike said. Their faces were inches apart. 

John closed his eyes to work up some courage. "Don't be," he said softly. 

"Oh..." 

Mike's hand came up and traced John's jawline in a very clumsy way that clearly suggested he'd never really done this before. John's heart felt like it was about to explode, but it was nothing compared to the hurricane he felt inside his chest when Michael leaned in and kissed him. 

It was completely weird and stupid and it made a fluttering feeling spread through his body. Like, I'm actually doing this...he'd thought about it for so long and it was as good as he could have imagined. 

Michael drew away. He looked up into John's eyes and smiled trustingly. John felt his heart explode into a billion pieces. 

"You're..." John was normally never lost for words, but now he couldn't find his voice. "You're sweet, Michael."

"Thank you, John," Mike said. For a moment John thought Mike was going to kiss him again. He didn't know what he'd have done if Mike had, but he didn't. Instead, he drew away, letting his fingertips trail over John's skin. "I...I like you a lot." Michael looked down shyly. 

"I like you too," John said. 

Mike stood up unsteadily. "D'you need help getting into your tent thingy?"

"Sure," John said, ignoring his pride. Mike helped him up and made him comfortable, or as comfortable as it got in a tiny wood shelter on the damp hard ground with a couple of tall snoring men. 

"Have a good sleep, John," Michael whispered. 

"You too, Mikey."

Mike smiled, dimples showing in his cheeks, and headed to his own lean-to. 

John didn't sleep very well. Cyclical thoughts of the kiss ran through his head, driving him nearly mad with longing. 

Michael passed out immediately with a smile on his face. 

(to be continued)


	3. I'll Follow the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more gayness and being lost. also a fight

The next morning, everyone ached all over. It was cold and damp and the fire had burned out. The sky wasn't quite as overcast, though. 

Terry Jones got up and saw Michael shoving sticks into the embers, trying to get them going again. Mike was wearing a jacket, but no shirt. Terry sat beside Mike. 

"So," he said. 

"Morning, Terry," Mike said with a smile. 

Michael's happy attitude was rather catching. Terry gave into it. "Hi, Michael. How'd you sleep?"

"Pretty well, considering the circumstances. How about you?"

Terry shrugged. "Same."

"That's good." Michael blew on the still-warm coals to try and get them burning again. 

They sat there in comfortable silence for a bit. Terry stood up and stretched out. 

Terry Gilliam came crawling out of the tent. He lay on the mud in front of Mike and groaned. 

"Hello, Terry," Mike said. He'd managed to get a small flame going and was now feeding it twigs and dry leaves. 

"Mmph," Terry Gilliam replied. 

Terry Jones tried to touch his toes, but failed miserably. 

"Anyone got a cigarette?" Terry G said. Jonesy gave him one. "God," Terry G moaned. "My back feels like an elephant walked all over it."

"Same," Terry J said. He did that weird stretch where you hook your arms together and twist to the side to crack your back. 

"Someone give me a back rub," Terry G said. 

Michael looked hesitant. He thought for a moment, then crawled over to Terry G and placed his hands on his shoulders—

"WAGHHHH!" Terry G yelled. "WHO'S TOUCHING ME?!"

Michael started crying. "I didn't—I thought—"

"Oh." Terry G looked up and saw him. His heart stopped beating at 100 miles an hour, but now he was all shaky from the adrenaline rush. "I thought someone was choking me, I didn't realize you'd actually give me a back rub."

Michael whimpered and pouted. 

"Well, get on with it," Gilliam said. He flopped face-down into the mud again. Michael rolled his eyes and did so. 

In a minute, a figure crawled out of the Cambridge tent. It was Eric Idle. He stood up and stretched. His back cracked loudly. 

"Mmph," he muttered. 

"Morning, El!" Mike said. "Sit down, why don't you?"

Eric flopped over beside Mike, his long gangly legs tangling up. "That was the worst sleep ever."

"Even considering the circumstances?" Mike said. 

Eric nodded. Mike winced. Eric said, "God, what I'd give for a hot shower..."

Michael moaned. "Don't say that. If I think of that I won't be able to get it off my mind."

"Shower," Eric said. "Hot water. Soap. Shampoo."

Michael glared at him. 

"Indoor plumbing," Eric continued. "Central heating. Coffee."

"I'm gonna kill you!" Mike groaned. 

Eric grinned. "What's for brekkie, Mike?"

"Dirt." Terry J pouted. 

"It is pretty dirty out here," Eric said. He saw Mike wince at the word "dirty" and decided to bug him. "Dirt," he said loudly. "Dirty fingernails. Greasy hair. Stubble."

"Stop it!" Michael said. 

"Takin' a shit in the woods," Eric said. He cackled, but stopped bugging Mike. 

"Everything's perfectly fine," Michael said. "We'll get back to civilization in no time." His eye twitched. 

"Right, right..." Eric said. He sighed. He was still inwardly kicking himself for the ouija board, despite Mike's best efforts to reassure him that he wasn't at fault. 

Eric leaned back against the cliff face. He stared up into the fresh-dawned sky, over which the cold sun had just cracked like some sort of huge egg into a great celestial frying pan. 

He was hungry and thirsty and achy and tired. He still shivered down to his bones with the chill of jumping into the ice-cold water last night. He was confused and wanted to go back home. His teeth were filthy. His long hair had a greasy, smoky smell to it. He wanted to wash it; he didn't like smelling like a rasher of bacon. 

Despite all that, he felt surprisingly not shitty. Maybe it was the nature or something, but he felt pretty sunny. 

He felt a rush of air from someone flopping down beside him. It was Graham. 

He looked up at the taller man. Graham looked even worse than Eric felt. With shaky hands, he raised the brandy to his mouth and drained the last of it. Eric watched him blink with the slight sting of it, wipe his mouth on his sleeve, and toss the flask absent-mindedly into the distance. 

Graham turned and squinted at Eric. "Wot you lookin' at?"

Eric shook his head and smirked. "Nothing, nothing."

"You look like shit, too. Your face is all covered in blood."

"Yours is too," said Eric.

They contemplated the tiny fire for a bit. 

"I think we should go to the river and wash up," Eric said. 

The others all agreed. Mike stayed behind with John while the rest left. 

Before they disappeared into the forest, Graham gave Michael a wink. Mike frowned sternly and tried to pretend he hadn't noticed. 

Michael crept into John's lean-to. He looked down at him. 

John looked so peaceful when he was sleeping. It was a nice contrast to his waking self. He did look a bit perturbed, but Michael supposed that John never relaxed completely. 

Perhaps John felt the other man's gaze on him, because he blinked awake to see Michael. 

The sun had positioned itself conveniently behind Michael's head. It shone and caught in his hair, giving him a halo. 

John blinked in the light. Did I die and go to heaven?...

"'Morning," Mike whispered. 

"Oh." John stretched his arms out above his head. "Good morning."

"The others have gone to wash up at the stream," Michael said. 

"You can just go with them," John said. 

"No, I thought I'd wait for you," Michael said. 

"Oh." John wiped the sleep from his eyes and yawned. "That's nice of you."

"We're alone," Mike blurted out. 

John laughed inwardly. Outside, he looked stoic as ever. He raised an eyebrow at Michael. "What're you insinuating?"

Mike laughed and looked down. "Oh, John, you know what I'm insinuating."

John managed to sit up. He yawned. When he opened his eyes Mike was right in front of him. 

"Waghh," John yelped. 

"Oh. Sorry," said Michael. 

John looked down. He couldn't bear looking into Mike's eyes. It made him feel like his head was going to explode.

But Mike kept on gazing into John's eyes. John felt jittery and nervous and warm. 

"I like you a lot, John." Michael's hand traced John's fingers. 

"I like you too, Mike." But John pulled his hand away, and he couldn't for the life of him even begin to figure out why. 

"That kiss last night was..." He trailed off and chuckled, running his fingers through his dark wavy hair. "That was something else."

John stayed silent for a moment. Then: "You thought so, too?"

"Of course," Michael said. He was turning pink. It was ridiculously cute. "And I'd...I'd like another one."

John glanced up, his small mouth tightening with an inquiring expression.

"Not if you don't want to, of course!" Michael blurted. "I just want, well, whatever you want."

John looked up into the sky. "I don't...I dunno what I want, Mike."

Michael was the one who looked questioning now. 

"I'm sorry, John," he said at last. He leaned back and looked down. "I thought it, er, meant something. I guess we were both stoned and whatnot, right?" He forced a giggle and went to get up. "Silly of me, really, I can't believe I asked you..."

John caught Michael's arm and pulled him down. Michael looked startled. Before John's superego could kick in, he pulled Michael into his lap and pressed his lips to the smaller man's. 

Michael reacted instantly. He wrapped his arms around John's broad shoulders and kissed him back, moaning slightly into the kiss. John could taste Michael. He tasted kind of salty. 

John pulled back and looked at Michael, who looked back. Mike looked totally intoxicated, eyes heavily lidded and cheeks flushed and lips already pink from being bitten. 

John wished he could get as involved in it as Mike. But nope, that damn superego was shouting at him again. Mike lunged at him, but John held him back and Mike complied. For a moment, John wished Michael would force himself on him, just so he wouldn't have to think about the implications. 

But Mike would never do that. 

"Mike, I just..." John trailed off. "I just don't know if this is a good idea."

"Why?" Mike pouted irresistibly. 

"Uh, we're both married."

"Helen and Connie aren't here, it doesn't matter!"

John blinked. Usually Michael was so considerate and kind to Helen. If anything, John would've thought he'd be the one to instigate cheating, rather than Mike. But here they were. 

"What about the other guys?" John said.

"Well..."

"Well what?" John said. 

Michael looked embarrassed for a moment, then shrugged. "I feel like they won't mind."

A neuron in John's mostly preoccupied brain fired. His eyes widened. 

He's always been a bit suspicious of Michael and Terry Jones' friendship. But he'd just brushed it off as normal John Cleese suspicion. 

But if Mike was willing to sleep with him, then he probably would be with any of the guys, too. John knew he was nothing special. And Mike and TJ were practically joined at the hip. 

Oh God, how had he never seen it before?!

Mike saw the look on his face. "John, I—"

"You!" John said. 

"Don't—"

"You and Terry!" John said. "You've been sleeping with Terry!"

"No I haven't!" Michael giggled nervously. 

"Yes you have! You're an awful liar, you always laugh like that when you're lying..."

"John..." Mike said. He looked distraught. 

"Mike, why wouldn't you tell me this?" John put his head in his hands. He didn't know how to feel. "I thought...I thought I was special or something idiotic like that. I thought you'd only want me. I'm such a fucking moron." He let out a tiny sob. 

"John, no..." Michael squealed. 

"How long were you with him?" John's eyes seemed to pierce Michael's heart. "How many times did you fuck?"

"Stop it, John!" Mike said. 

"He used you, Mike," John said. "He held you down and breathed all hot down your neck until you let him fuck you, didn't he? And you liked it." John wasn't yelling. He was cold and furious. This was the mood that scared Michael most. "You fucking dirty lying whore. How many guys have you slept with?"

"Stop, John! Fucking stop it!" Michael snapped. John ignored him. 

"Did you sleep with Gray?" John said. "Don't fucking giggle and lie to my face, Michael."

"I..." Michael looked guilty.

"I can't believe you," John said. "What about Eric? Did you fuck Eric?"

"Only once!" Mike said. "And he was completely stoned out of his mind on acid, he doesn't remember a thing, I swear—and Graham was an accident! I swear!"

"You fucking SLUT!" John yelled. "I'm just another fucking item to check off on your list, aren't I?"

"No, it's not like that! Just listen!"

"I won't! You've been lying to my face! I thought you were some sort of fucking innocent virgin and you've just been playing me!"

"JOHN!" Mike yelled. "John! Just let me explain!"

John crossed his arms. He was radiating fury. 

"Listen, Graham and Eric were both mistakes, honestly," Mike said quietly. "They didn't mean anything!"

"But when I touch you I can smell the dirt they've left behind on you..."

"John, you're being totally irrational and creepy right now," Michael said. "And I guess...I guess Terry was something different, yeah." Michael stood up and crossed his arms. "So I was attracted to a man? Big fuckin' deal! I'm attracted to you, and you're a man."

"But that's different. You've been used." John frowned. 

"John, you don't just throw people away after you've, er, consummated your relationship with them," Michael said. "I'm not anything less just because I've done it with another guy. I don't know why you're acting like this." He glared. "I thought you, um, liked me."

"I don't know." John closed his eyes. "I just don't know."

"I can't fucking deal with you, John!" Mike snapped. "You know what I think? You're afraid of me being with another guy because you're afraid you won't be as good as they are. You're so selfish and paranoid you won't even touch me, because you're afraid I'll tell you you're inferior!" He clenched his fists at his aides and stood up straight. "And you're in denial about your attraction for another guy! You think there's something wrong with Eric, and me, and Gray! Well, there's not! There's something wrong with you! You're a selfish worthless bigot and I don't need an asshole like you in my life right now! Get out of my life and go back to hell where you belong!" He spat in the dirt. 

Tears were streaked down John's face. He pushed himself to his feet. His leg nearly buckled under him, but he took a step. 

Mike's eyes widened. "Oh, John," he said softly, "you shouldn't be walking with your leg...I mean, no! I don't fuckin' care what you do."

John took a shaky step toward Mike. "Mike, I fucking hate you so much right now," he growled. 

"Good."

"I can take you even with my leg fucked up, you little cunt."

Mike spat out a bitter laugh. "Try me, asshole."

John took another unsteady step. "You fucking slut."

Mike lost control. He balled his hand into a fist and, blind with rage, punched John right in the face. It span him around partway. He fell back against the cliff face. 

John gasped out. His eye was throbbing, and it had started swelling up immediately. He gently brushed it with his fingers. 

He looked up and flinched. Mike jumped onto him. 

But something unexpected happened. Mike's mouth met John's sloppily. Mike wrapped his arms tightly around John and licked at his lips, demanding entrance, which John of course couldn't help but grant. Mike gasped out—"Oh god, John!—" and turned his head sideways and completely ravished his mouth, sliding his tongue against John's. 

He finally relinquished John's mouth, needing to breathe, but continued passionately kissing his face and neck all over, biting his earlobe. 

He pulled back and stared into his eyes, smirking. "Fuck me, John."

"Oh," John whimpered. 

"Fuck me, pleeeease..." Mike rocked his hips against John's and threw his head back in mock ecstasy. "Oh, JOHN!"

John blocked his superego out again (it seemed to be the only way to get anything done) and captured Mike's mouth with his own. Mike let out a surprised squeal and kissed back. His hands were creeping suspiciously low...

And some noise behind them, in the forest. It sounded like...applause?

They both turned and looked. The rest of Monty Python were standing behind them, clapping and laughing like idiots. 

"Hey!" John yelled. 

Eric made a wolf whistle. 

"Nice catch, Mikey," Graham said. 

"Guysss!" Mike climbed off of John and looked humiliated. "Come on, grow up!"

"God, they're so cute, aren't they?" Graham squealed to Eric. Eric nodded vigorously. "They need a cute portmanteau relationship name."

"Cleeselin..." Eric mused. "Paleese. Yeah, I like Paleese."

"Cutie pies," Graham said. 

"How long've you been standing there?" Mike said crossly. 

"Ever since the bit where John said Terry used you," said Terry Gilliam. "My god, the drama..."

"Totally great," Eric added.

"Ugh." Mike pouted. John slowly sat back down, aware of his pained leg. 

"Anyways," Terry Jones said. "I think we should keep going."

They decided to walk to the left of the cliff face until they reached the edge of it. They did the same thing as yesterday, Mike and TJ and TG going out in front, Eric and Gray helping John walk. John's knee felt a bit better. He didn't want to take the bandage off and look underneath, though. There was something about the sight of his own blood...

John's suspicions came true; Eric and Graham teased him incessantly about Mike. John felt rather humiliated. He didn't say anything for fear of blowing up and getting in a fight, which would not be good in that situation, but his ponderous eyebrows pulled down over his eyes and his mouth was set in a thin line. He looked like a volcano about to erupt. 

Eric and Gray actually stopped harassing him after a while, maybe seeing how close to the brink he was anyways. They were both quiet now. 

"What do you guys miss most?" Eric said suddenly. 

"Toilets," Graham said. 

"No, I mean, like, something good." Eric looked down. 

"I dunno," Gray replied. Then quietly, almost inaudibly: "David, I guess."

Eric nodded. 

"God, I wonder what he's up to right now?" Graham said. "I hope he's having a good time. I hope he's not...worried."

"He probably will be," John said. They both looked up at him. "I mean, he cares about you. If I were him I'd be completely freaked out. I'd call the police." He laughed, but there was no humor in that laugh. 

"Well, David isn't really like you, John," Graham said. "He's, like, laid-back. He probably thinks I've gone off with some boy."

"I never understood something about you guys," John said. "How can you be okay with him just, um, doing thingy with other people? And you just cheat on him, too. Are you happy like that?"

"We don't really call it cheating, it was understood when we got together that there would be other people too," Graham said. "And yeah, we're happy. We're already weird enough, right? And just because I give other guys love doesn't mean I have none left for him. That's the thing about love, it doesn't just run dry. The more you give, the more you've got, somehow." He paused and looked into the sky. "That's what I think, anyways."

"You've definitely got something special," Eric added. 

"David's special." Graham looked down. He seemed shy, which was odd for him; he was fairly quiet usually, but had no qualms about expressing his opinions. "I think...I think I'm in love with him."

"Oh," Eric said softly. 

"I've never felt anything like this before," Graham said. "It's so weird. I'd go monogamous for him, if he asked, y'know." He smiled. "And he wants to change his last name to mine, he's so old-fashioned about some things. Isn't that sweet, though?"

Eric and John were both quiet. Eric said: "What d'you miss, John?"

"Oh, um, good food. Showers. Tea. Not having a black eye and a broken knee."

("Sprained," Graham whispered.)

"You must miss Connie, though," Eric said. 

John shrugged. "I guess...To tell you the truth, things have been rather lackluster lately."

"Did you try anal?" Graham said. 

Eric reached over and smacked him. "He doesn't mean like that, you idiot!"

"She probably wouldn't care if I never came back," John said. 

"Yes she would!" Eric said. "People care when people just disappear! I mean, if it were me, I'd be worried. And I'm not sexually attracted to you at all."

("Sure," said Graham.)

"She doesn't care about me," John said. "None of them do."

"That's totally ridiculous! Tons of people care about you. You're John fuckin' Cleese! You're an actor! You're funny and brilliant and stubborn and people love you!"

John looked down.

"John, they do," Eric said more quietly. "We love you, John. I love you. We all do, no matter how much we tease you, or get in fights with you."

"Why?" John said. 

"Huh?" Eric said. 

"Why do you love me? There's no reason to. I'm angry all the time, and I'm jealous, and I'm—worthless. Even Mike told me so."

"He was in a mood, you know he didn't mean that."

John shrugged. 

"We love you because..." Eric trailed off. "Well, when we started this stupid group, it was kind of like getting married. We all got married to each other. In sickness and in health, blah blah blah. And we didn't love each other at first, but now we do. John, I can't explain why I love you. I can't explain why anyone loves anyone any more than I can explain rocket science, or, um, refraction."

Graham rolled his eyes. 

"But the point is," Eric went on, "we'll always love you. You can't do anything about it. We love you because you're wonderful, John, and you're funny, and intelligent, and even if you can't see these things in yourself I can see them. And I know they're true. I've seen evidence of them."

John was quiet. 

"I love you too," Graham said awkwardly. "I'm not eloquent like he is, but I love you. And what he's saying is true."

"Thanks, I guess." John's voice was all choked up; he sounded like he was fighting to keep it steady. "That...I dunno. I love you guys too."

"What do you miss, Eric?" Graham said. 

Eric sighed. "Lyn, most of all. I miss every part of her. Her hair and her smell and the way she would touch me. I guess the way she would touch anything. Just so gentle, even if she's sweeping the floor or anything, when you watch her you feel like she's polishing the bloody Crown Jewels. She's so beautiful. I love her...I want her back." He bit his lip. 

Graham chuckled. "Well, we're a cheerful lot, aren't we? Don't see why Mike and the Terries don't want to hang around with us."

"Do you write songs, Eric?" John said. 

"What you mean?" said Eric. 

"I mean, I know you play the guitar. But do you write your own stuff?"

Eric chuckled. "Oh, I've tried, and I can't. Maybe I could write a song about, like...penises."

"Penis song?" Graham laughed. "What would that be like?"

"I dunno, a song about different types of penis." The corners of Eric's lips pulled up wryly into a little smirk. 

"That's good." Graham sighed happily. "We've got to remember that one."

"Why'd you want to know, John?" Eric asked. 

"I dunno," John said, "you just seem so poetic. Lyrical, or something. You've got, um, a talent for that." John would normally give thanks where thanks was due, but he wasn't used to giving compliments, so he felt a bit awkward. 

"Aw, thanks." Eric smiled again. "You're being nice, John! I think Mike's getting to you!"

John felt a twinge of jealousy at Eric mentioning Michael like that, but he tried to brush it off. 

"I'm not. Shut up," John said, rolling his eyes. 

"Ah, there he is," Eric said. "I guess you have a point, though. I've never really thought about myself like that. Maybe I should write everything down in a diary like Mike."

Speaking of whom: Michael did, in fact, have his diary out, along with a stubby pencil. He was frowning at the page, trying to write and walk through the forest at the same time. 

"Whatcha doing?" Terry Jones came up behind him. 

Michael looked sheepish and stuffed the notebook in his pocket. "Oh, nothing, really."

"Are you writing about me?" TJ asked. 

"No, Terry," Michael said. "In fact, if you really want to know, I was writing a lovely descriptive bit about how the sunlight shines through the leaves on the trees."

"Of course." Terry rolled his eyes. "Hey, can you put me in your story?"

"It's not really a story," Mike said. "And you are in it, actually."

"Ooh, make me have abs," Terry said. "And a cute nose."

"You already have a cute nose," Michael said. "And you don't need abs. I like you how you are."

Terry laughed. "Thanks, I think. So..."

Michael gazed down at the dead leaves that covered the swampy ground. "Terry, er, I don't want to be intrusive, but are you doing okay?"

"Yeah...Oh, you mean that? Yeah, I guess I'm okay." He looked over at Mike. "I guess I kind of knew it was over before you told me. I mean, you want romance, intrigue, drama. I'm not very romantic or intriguing or, er, dramatic. I'm just Terry." He looked exhausted, Mike noticed. "I like you a lot, but I guess we're better as friends."

"Thanks for being so understanding." Mike looked down and smiled. "God, I like you a lot. You're my best mate."

"What, even more than John?"

"Yeah. I mean, you get me. And I get you. John's just so...complicated."

"Wot, and I'm not?" Terry grinned. 

"No, you're complicated, but your complications are all, like, on your outside. I guess you seem to wear your heart on your sleeve. And John's just..."

"Just an asshole." Terry snorted. 

"He's deep," Mike said. "He's like the ocean. He's calm on the surface, but he's dark and angry underneath, and he could lash out at any second..." Mike trailed off. "That's good. I gotta write that down."

"I know what you mean," Terry said. 

"And I've got to tell you something, honestly, Jonesy," Mike said. "I want to keep seeing you. Even if we aren't a good couple, I'd still like to be, er, friends with benefits. I like what we have. You know me so well."

I do...every inch of his body I've traced with my tongue, and I've known him more intimately than anyone else ever could. "But why can't we, then?"

"It's just John," Michael said. "He's so protective of me. He can't stand the thought of me seeing someone else. I don't think he even likes me talking to you."

"I don't think that's healthy," Terry said hesitantly. "I know you've banged Gray, and—" he whispered so Eric couldn't hear— "and Eric. And I don't care. I like spending time with you."

"He's different," Michael said. "He's insecure." His eyes grew dark and glazed over, and his face flushed. "He's clingy and jealous and possessive. I know he could hurt me, and I could hurt him...and, Terry, I think I actually like it."

Terry rolled his eyes. "Well, to each their own, but I'm not sure about this."

"I promise I'll get out if things get weird," Mike said. 

"If they get weird?" Terry snorted. "Can it actually get weirder? We've been spirited away by a magic ouija board, we have no idea where the hell we are, there's no sign of civilization around in any direction, you're sleeping with John, John fucking Cleese! And the weirdest part is, we haven't killed each other yet. It can't get any weirder than this."

He was wrong. 

Terry Gilliam's voice called back from up ahead: "Uh, guys? Come here. You might wanna see this."

They all traipsed over. Up ahead was a clearing, and as they all walked into the open sunlight they saw something very odd indeed...


	4. You've Got to Hide Your Love Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more stuff and angst happens

It was a castle. A huge castle, a couple hundred yards away on a hill. It looked rickety, although something made out of huge blocks of stone really shouldn't be rickety at all.

"If anyone says 'But it's only a model,'" Graham said, "I'll bite their nose off."

"Wow," Eric said, expressing all the group's feelings. 

They all stood in awe for a moment before deciding to advance to the castle. John had picked up a stick and was using it to support himself so Eric and Graham wouldn't have to carry him. They walked up the hill. 

The castle was pretty desolate, but there was smoke coming from one high chimney...

And as they advanced, they saw that there appeared to be a whole little village behind the castle. It was all straw huts. A filthy-looking man with a goat saw them. His eyes widened and he ran off. 

"Where the hell are we?" John said. 

"Look, the front of the castle," Mike said, pointing. "Let's go knock."

They did. After some deliberation and a rock-paper-scissors tournament, they made Eric knock. 

The door was 20 feet tall, made from blackish wooden boards that looked solid as steel. With trepidation, Eric tiptoed up to the castle, rapped lightly with his knuckles on the ominous door, and ran back to the group. They all tried to hide behind him. 

For a minute, nothing happened. Then the door slowly swung open. Everyone hid behind Eric even more. 

A figure loomed out of the darkness of a castle. It was a woman, probably less than 5 feet tall. She was wearing an ornate Middle-Ages-looking dress and a veil over her long red hair. Her skin was milk-white and starred with a galaxy of freckles. 

"Friend or foe?" she whispered, looking frightened. 

Eric stepped up to her and took her hand in both of his. "I'd like to think of myself as a friend, my lovely."

(Graham rolled his eyes. "Straight people.")

"Oh." She glanced down. "From whence doth thou travel? Thy garments seem..." She took Eric's jacket and rubbed it between her fingertips. "Most strange," she said doubtfully. 

"Very far away," Eric said. He kneeled and kissed her hand. "And what would your name be, your majesty?" he said. 

"I am Eidola," she said. "And do not call me thy majesty, I am but a simple lady of this township."

"Excuse me, my lady," Eric whispered. "Thy noble appearance could rule the whole of Great Britain, forgive me for being presumptuous. Eidola? A beautiful name, yet not beautiful enough for a goddess such as thyself."

("Kill me," Graham whispered to John. John rolled his eyes.)

"Oh," said Eidola. She turned a fair shade of pink. "What would thy name be, then?"

"Eric of Cambridge," said Eric. He practically had tiny hearts in his eyes. "Thy servant." He kissed her hand, then turned it over and kissed the palm, very gently. 

"Well..." she said. "I suppose I should call my father."

Eric's face fell. "Father?"

"Father!" she called, back to the inside of the castle. 

A man in a strange outfit came out and looked suspiciously at the Pythons. He was probably just over five feet tall. "Eidola, who are these strange men?"

"This is Eric of Cambridge, and these are..." She hesitated. "His noble knights," she said. 

Eidola's father looked at them. "Who are you lads?" he said. 

"Travelers," Mike said. "Where are we?"

"I am the lord of Blakely Downs, this township," said the man. 

Terry Jones pushed his way through to the front of the group. "What year is it?"

"Let me see," said the man. "Year Of Our Lord 1492."

"1493, Father," said Eidola. 

"Don't correct me!" the man said severely. 

But the Pythons didn't notice. They were too busy staring at each other in awe, confusion, and/or a whole lotta fear. 

"This must be some kind of joke," John said. 

Graham nodded. He stepped up to the man, towering almost a foot over him. "Alright, this is all very funny, but quit messing with us. I want to go home."

"What do you mean?" The man raised an eyebrow. "How dare you talk to nobility in such a manner? I should have you stoned."

"Already done, baby," Terry Gilliam said. 

"I want to go home!" Michael said. 

"We all do," Terry Jones said. 

"I want to go HOME!" Michael shrieked. "Fuck this forest! Fuck this castle! I want to go home! WHY!"

TJ frowned and grabbed Mike, holding his flailing arms behind him so he wouldn't be hurt. "Shush, Mikey, you're going to be okay."

"I HATE IT HERE! It's dirty and confusing and I hate it!" He started crying hysterically. He kicked at Jonesy's shins. "Please, please, I want..."

"It's okay, Mike..." Jonesy looked concerned. 

Graham stepped up to Michael and held his arms. "Breathe with me, Mike, okay?"

Michael cried and squirmed. 

"Breathe, Mike! You're hyperventilating!"

Michael swallowed and tried to get a hold. 

"Good, good. Now. Breathe in...hold your breath...breathe out...hold your breath...breathe in..." Graham repeated it a couple times. Michael obeyed, too frightened to do otherwise. 

Graham was shivering. His hands felt clammy and cold against Mike's skin and his breath smelled stale. Maybe he's sick, Mike thought absently. 

I'm dying, I'm dying, I'm dying, holy fuck is it ever cold out here...I need a drink. Graham blinked sluggishly and breathed along with the smaller man. 

"Now...now, Michael, you're going to be okay," Graham said. 

"I, I," Mike stuttered. 

"You're okay," Graham said. "You're frightened, I understand, but you need to try and calm down, okay?"

Mike panted and managed to regain his normal breathing. 

"We're here for you, Mike. We love you. It's okay, just breathe."

John limped over and looked at Michael. Mike's eyes were big and wet and he was still struggling to breathe. Something in John's heart snapped, and he couldn't help but cuddle Michael up in his arms in a purely instinctive reaction. His lips brushed Michael's cheek. Michael clung to him tightly, his breath growing more steady. 

"He's MINE," John mouthed to Terry Jones, who was staring at him. Terry J made a wide-eyed face and backed away, hands raised. 

"He's...er, ill," Eric said to the man in the castle doorway, who was giving him a very weird look. 

"What do you want?" the man said. He crossed his arms and looked hostile. 

"Look, er...what was your name agai?" Eric said. 

"Lord of Blakely Downs, Iain Merriweather," said the man. 

"Okay, Iain, to tell you the truth here we're terribly lost," Eric said. "And we were wondering if you could help us find a way back home..." Eric trailed off as he gazed at his surroundings. "But somehow I don't think you can," he murmured. 

It looked like the Middle Ages. The people spoke and dressed as if they were from the Middle Ages. Hell, Graham thought as a sweaty man pushed a cart of manure past them, it even smelled like the Middle Ages. 

But it couldn't be, it just couldn't...

The two Terries made eye contact. 

Time travel? Terry Gilliam thought. 

Terry Jones nodded. Definitely. 

Sick. 

"Father, surely we could let them spend the night?" Eidola asked Iain.

Eric tried to look as much like a weary traveller as possible while nodding vigorously. 

"We don't even know who they are," Iain said. 

"I'm Eric," said Eric. 

"I'm John, and this is Mike."

"I'm Graham, and John has a torn medial collateral ligament."

"I'm Terry and this is also Terry."

"You bugger, I was going to say that..."

"Yes, but who are you?" said Iain. 

"We're entertainers," said John. 

"Like jesters?" said Eidola.

"I guess," Terry Jones said. 

"I'm a musician," Eric added. 

"Father, they're jesters," Eidola said urgently. "Please let them stay, for just one night! I promise they'll do nothing wrong!"

"I wouldn't promise anything," Eric purred. 

"Fine," Iain said. "On one condition."

"What!" all six Pythons yelled, except Terry Gilliam, who yelled "Chicken!" because he saw a chicken. 

"You shall perform for us." Iain smirked. "Yes, yes. I'm entertaining tonight and this shall prove most interesting."

"Doesn't sound too bad..." Graham said. 

"And if you fail to make them laugh..."

"They'll throw tomatoes at us!" Terry Gilliam said. 

"OFF WITH YOUR HEADS!" Lord Iain roared. They all flinched, mainly because of the massive amount of spittle shooting from his gob. 

"I think that's a bit harsh," Eric said. 

"Then you shall be drawn and quartered!"

"That doesn't sound so bad," Terry G said. "I like it when people draw me."

"That's not what he means," Jonesy stage-whispered to him. 

"Oh. Well, then, what?"

TJ pulled him aside and whispered a brief explanation in his ear. TG's eyes slowly widened. 

"And the intestines just come right out?" he said, horrified.

"Tout suite," Jonesy said. 

"That's cruel and unusual punishment," Graham interrupted. "That's illegal!"

"Illegal?" said Iain. "Illegal?! I AM the law!"

Graham frowned. He lit his pipe. 

The lord appeared fascinated by this. 

"What's this?" he said. "What's this! Fire on a stick!" 

"Yes," Graham said. "It's called matches." He put the matchbook in his pocket. 

"Fire on a stick that you put in your pocket?!"

Graham nodded. "Good job."

The lord looked intrigued. "What means of witchcraft is this?"

"It's science," Graham said severely. 

"Science?"

"Alchemy," Terry Jones interrupted. 

"Incredible what they can do these days," said Iain. "Very well. Eidola, show them in."

"Yes, father." Eidola took Eric's hand. 

"So, we don't have to perform tonight?" John asked. 

The lord looked back sharply. "Did I say that?"

"You, er, implied it."

"You are performing!" the lord snapped. "Or else I'll roast your fingers, and I'll boil your eyeballs, and I will pan-sear your liver and serve it with a side of wild rice and fresh greens! Do not test me!"

He stomped off. 

"Very well," John said.

"I thought he was rather nice," Michael said. 

They followed Eidola inside the castle. It was rather a castle-y looking castle, with cold stone floors and sconces and tapestries everywhere. They walked through a great dining hall and up a spiral staircase.

"My father and I each have a room, and the servants sleep in the basement quarters," Eidola said to Eric. 

(Terry Gilliam flinched at the word "quarter." Terry Jones comforted him.)

"Which leaves three other rooms, for thee and thy comrades," Eidola finished. She showed them the rooms. Two were next to each other and one was on the opposite side of the hall. They all looked pretty much the same; straw bed, fireplace, guzunder, metal tub.

"Art thou satisfied?" Eidola said. 

"Not quite yet..." Eric grabbed her and they shoved each other into her room, kissing and biting each other. The door slammed shut. After a moment it opened again. A shirtless Eric stuck his head out the opening and said, "No one come in, or take pictures, or make fun of my orgasm noises. I'll kill you all if you do!" He stuck a sock on the door handle and slammed it shut again. 

"Make fun of his orgasm noises?" John said. 

"He sounds like a seal," Mike giggled. John glared at him. "Hey, what?"

They decided to try and sort out the rooms.

"John and I will go in there," Graham said, "Terry J and Mike will go in there, Eric and TG will go in there." He pointed at each of the rooms as he said "there."

"Mike's staying with me," John said. 

"Ah, getting possessive, are we?" Graham smirked. "Okay. John and Mike stay there, me and TJ will be there, Eric and TG will go there."

Terry J looked starry-eyed; he had a massive crush on Graham that was apparent to everyone except the object of his slightly creepy affections. However, Terry Gilliam said "Why do I have to stay with Eric?"

"Why do I have to stay with Gil?" Eric yelled from the bedroom. "Oh, oh God!"

"I told you he sounds like a seal," Mike said. 

"Fine! Me and Eric, John and Mike, and the Terries stay together! Are we all happy?"

There was general nodding and mumbling. Graham went into his own room to inspect the bed and found it utterly disgusting. He sat on it anyway. 

He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. A magical ouija board was far-fetched enough. A magical ouija board that transported you to a creepy forest was worse. 

But a magical ouija board that transported you to a creepy forest and displaced you in time?! That was impossible. He couldn't wrap his head around it. He felt like he was going to puke or go mad. Possibly both. 

On the other side of the hall, he could hear the Terries bickering about which side of the bed they each got. How could they be arguing about such petty things when the laws of physics were being crumpled up and thrown out in front of their eyes?

How could Eric be nailing that nutty ginger bird? How could John and Mike be doing...well, whatever John and Mike did?

He was only certain of one thing: he needed a drink. He was still shaking and he knew it would only go downhill from here. 

He got up. He wandered around the castle for a few minutes until he ran across a servant. 

"Hello," he said. 

"Good day." She paused in dusting a tapestry and looked over at him. 

"Er, got anything to drink?"

"Yes, m'lord. Wine, ale, mead—"

"Wine sounds good."

"Whence from?"

"Surprise me," Graham said. "I'll be in my room."

She was fast. Good service around here, he thought. The wine was shit but at this point Listerine would have tasted like manna from heaven. 

He began to get slowly and inexorably drunk. 

At the same time, John sat on the edge of the fireplace and watched Mike make the bed. He did it quite meticulously, tucking the sheets under the edges of the mattress. 

When he was done he inspected the bed. Then he went and sat beside John. 

"Did we time travel?" Michael asked abruptly. 

"I think so," John said. "Or else we're in the world's most accurate and boring medieval themed fair."

Michael stared off into space. "That's pretty neat."

"I guess you could say that," John said. 

"I knew the ouija board brought us here," Mike said.

"Really?"

"Well, there's just no other way," Mike said. "Think about it. It couldn't have been a coincidence."

"It still doesn't make any sense. Why are we here, I mean now? Why would some malevolent spirit bring us to the medieval times?"

"I think we're here for a greater purpose," Mike said.

John sighed. 

"You sound incredulous." Mike flopped down beside John and smiled. 

"I dunno. I'm just in way over my head here. I think the best thing for me is to ignore it."

He felt Mike's hand brush against his. 

"Me too," Mike said unsteadily. 

Meanwhile meanwhile, the Terries were debating the time travel problem too, albeit in a slightly different manner. 

Terry G pointed at a certain part of the huge diagram he'd drawn with a burnt stick, which took up an entire wall. 

"...and our atoms passed from there into the temporal dilator, causing us to become displaced on the space-time continuum in accordance with the Ellis principle, and so we're here in this shitty castle." TG concluded. 

"I like the interdimensional warp idea better," Terry Jones said. "With today's—I mean, with the technology of the twentieth century, humans could never build a temporal dilator or a reality flanger. I honestly think a random tear in the continuum is more likely to happen than your theory."

"Those are some high odds, man," TG said. He raised an eyebrow. "Care to explain?"

"Well, at the weakest points between universes particles can sometimes interlock..." Jonesy started. 

But when all was said and done, one obvious theory stared them in the face. 

"You don't think..." TG said. 

"No, couldn't be," Jonesy said. "...But maybe—"

"Never."

They both sat on the bed. 

"Alright, I know what you're thinking, and you know what I'm thinking," TJ said. "On the count of three, let's just say it out loud. One, two, three—"

"Chickens," Terry G said. 

"The ouija board," Jonesy said simultaneously. He raised both his thick bushy eyebrows. "Chickens, Gil? Really?"

"I'm hungry! But the ouija board thing makes more sense," TG said. 

"It's just, why would, like, a spirit want us to go to the Middle Ages?" Jonesy asked. 

"Maybe it's a vengeful spirit," TG said. "Maybe it wants us to feel shitty."

"Why?"

Terry G shrugged. "Dunno. I ain't ever wronged no spirits."

"And how are we supposed to get back home?" Jonesy asked. 

They both pondered the question. 

"Maybe we won't," TG said. "I mean, we have to expect the worst."

"I don't think I'd know what to do." Terry Jones flopped over onto the bed. "No Alison. No home. Lost in time, no hope of getting found." He sighed and closed his eyes. 

"You've got us." Jonesy felt Gil's hand on his arm. He looked up. 

"Yeah." TJ smiled wryly. "Dunno what I'd do without you...I'd probably still be sane."

"Sanity is an affliction," Gil said in his awful fake British accent. "But, yunno, we could get back somehow."

"How?"

"Open a rift in the continuum," TG said. "Of course, it'd be damn near impossible to get a temporal dilator, or a reality flanger, especially in the 1400's. But hey, time travel's damn near impossible. There's hope."

"Thanks." Terry smiled. "But I still miss Alison."

But that was partly a lie. He did miss Alison, but what he missed most of all was easily within reach. And that made it infinitely more painful. 

To put it simply, he missed Mike. His smell and his taste and his moans. And pretty much everything else about him. He needed Mike and he couldn't have him because of John. 

Always knew I was right in hating him, he thought. 

"Terry, you got a cigarette?" he asked. 

"Sure do. I only got six left but you can have one." Terry G lit a cigarette and gave it to Jonesy.

The shorter man inhaled deeply from it, blew smoke out his nostrils and sighed. "I feel like shit."

"I want a bath," Terry G said. "I'm think maybe what we do is get people to bring water in in buckets and then we heat it up on the fire."

"That's so much trouble," Jonesy moaned. "I'm not gonna bother."

"I'll go ask," Terry G said. He left. 

God, he thought, what's up his ass? He should be all over this shit. Normally he'd love it. He's no fun to be around in this mood. 

He thought maybe it was Mike. 

Terry Jones was quiet and still, curled up in bed. He was trying to not be upset. On top of the whole bloody time travel thing (which was rather cool but a huge hindrance) his best friend and lover had left him. 

He could hear Mike and John talking in the next room...

"...I still don't understand how you could sleep with Jonesy."

Mike took a long drag from his cigarette and raised an eyebrow. "Like I said, it's in the past. He was my best friend and things just progressed from there."

"Is he still, er, your best friend?" John's eyes were downcast.

Silence. "I dunno. Does it matter."

"I guess not." John sighed. "I'm sorry I'm so jealous. I guess I just can't believe that you even like me."

"Well, I do, John."

Mike leaned in and kissed John's mouth. It was like the third or fourth time. John was still nervous enough to go instantly immobile. 

Mike withdrew. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Keep going."

Mike did. 

When John thought about the fact that he was sitting here, making out with another bloke, he felt repulsed. He was straight, for God's sake. And he was married. He'd always put this kind of stuff firmly into the realms of Graham Chapman and whatever he got up to. 

But when he ignored all that, it felt good. It felt great. He'd never been kissed by anyone like Mike. He was gentle, but there was something really rough and cruel underneath the niceness. And he wanted to see that cruelty.

"Oh, Mike," he whispered when Mike parted from him. 

Michael smiled, his eyes dark with passion. "It's good to be alone with you, finally."

"You too." John pulled Mike closer and slipped his tongue between his lips. Mike made a little giggly squeak. 

"Oh, John..."

And when Terry G came back to their room with the bath water, he found Jonesy sobbing.


	5. Come Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (in regards to the title: not that kind of come, you sick freak. Not yet, anyway.)  
> DRAMA DRAMA DRAMA GAYNESS AND DRAMA. this chapter is weird but that goes without saying.

Terry Gilliam, John, and Michael were standing outside the Terries' room, huddled together in a hushed conference. 

"Who gets to go comfort him?" Terry G was whispering. 

"Not me," John said. "He hates me. And the feeling is mutual."

"I don't know if it should be me," Mike said hesitantly. 

"It shouldn't." John protectively drew Michael closer. 

"I have no idea what to do..." Terry G confessed. 

"Maybe Graham knows," Michael said. 

"Where is he, anyways?" Terry G asked. 

"Off getting drunk," said John. 

"What?!" Michael said. "How could you let him do that? We have to perform tonight or we'll all die horrible gory deaths, and you all know Graham couldn't perform in front of even an ant when he's drunk!" He rushed off to Graham's room.

"What do ants have to do with it?" Terry G murmured to John. John shrugged. 

Graham's bedroom door swung open, letting in a shaft of watery light. He didn't look back. 

Michael tiptoed over. "Graham?"

Graham looked up. "Wot?"

"What are you doing in here all by yourself?" 

"I'm an alco...alcoholic. And I've just gone through major trauma. What the fuck d'you think I'm doing, Mike?"

"Oh, Gray," Michael whispered. "Oh, come on." He yanked on Graham's arm, trying to pull him up. Graham overbalanced and fell into Michael's arms. Mike staggered under the taller man's weight. 

"I mish, I mean I miss David," he moaned. "I want him back."

"Ew, your breath stinks." Michael winced as he attempted to stand upright. 

"Mike?" 

Michael looked up to see Graham staring into his eyes with a strangely sober look. 

"What is it, Gray?" he asked. 

"You remember that one time when we, when we fucked?"

Michael winced. "Yes. Unfortunately."

"Why'd we stop?"

"There was nothing to stop. It was a mistake!" Michael was getting a bit exasperated. 

Graham slipped limply out of his arms and puddled up on the stone floor. "Wot, you mean you accidentally invited me into your flat, and accidentally got me drunk, and accident...dentally pushed me down onto the couch and—"

"Stop it!" Michael yanked Graham back to his feet. "Now you're going to come out here with me and help us find a constructive solution to this problem."

Graham kissed Mike. He tasted like wine and something dead. Michael froze. 

Someone stomped into the room, grabbed Graham and punched him in the face. It was John, of course. Terry G came running in after, yelling "John! Your leg! John, what the fuck?!"

"Keep your hands off him!" John yelled. 

Graham numbly touched his face. He winced. "You bloody bastard..." His voice sounded oddly choked. 

"What d'you think you're doing?" John said. Michael could see all the signs of an imminent tantrum in John. Clenched fists, gritted teeth, that awful glowering storm cloud frown that Michael himself had been on the end of more than once before and would like to be never again, thank you very much. He was leaning in aggressively toward Graham. Mike knew that if he'd been in Graham's place, he'd be pissing himself in fear. 

Graham gave John the Sarcastic Look. This was enough to make John fly at him, but now Terry G and Mike were both holding him back. John was big but there was no way he could get out of their grip, especially with his injured leg. Terry G gave Mike a sarcastic look of his own behind John's back, although his was nowhere in the vicinity of the scathing contempt of Graham's. Mike just looked worried. 

"John, you're being rash..." Mike murmured. 

"I am not! I'm saving you from this fucking pedophile!"

Graham filled his pipe up and gave John another Look. 

"I don't need to be saved," Michael said. 

"Yes you do," John said. 

"I don't! I love you, John, but I'm not helpless, I can take care of myself. And I'm not your little pet."

Graham smirked at him, too intoxicated to think of a snappy response. Michael glared at Graham, but he didn't have much practice and he looked like a puppy wrinkling its nose up. 

"But Michael..." John said. 

"I'm not going to argue with you," Michael said. "But look at us! It's been two days away from society and we're at each other's throats. It's bloody Lord of the Flies with us. Where's all our humanity gone? Where did sensitive, strong John and brilliant, caring Graham go?"

John began "I—"

"No, John, I'm tired of this." Michael sounded like he was in tears. "I give up. Go beat the pulp out of each other. I don't care anymore. I'm going to go talk to Jonesy." He turned to go. 

John gently grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. "Mike, I'm sorry."

Mike was doing that goddamn Bambi eyes thing again, and his lower lip was trembling. John couldn't tell if it was sincere or just a grab for his sympathy. But if it were the latter, it worked. 

"...I'm sorry I'm so overprotective of you," John said. "I know I have no right to tell you what to do, or who you can talk to. It's just you're the only person who cares about me...I know that sounds desperate, but it's true. I hope you can forgive me."

"Oh, John," Michael cried. He fell all swooning into John's arms. John staggered a bit. "Of course I do." He started kissing John, who was rather uncomfortable with public displays of affection, especially with the way Graham was leering at him. But Mike was still talking. "I'll never talk to anyone again if you don't want me to. I'll only do whatever you want."

Graham was stifling himself trying to hold in his laughter. John rolled his eyes at Gray and petted Michael's hair, which also had the effect of pushing him back a bit. Michael's eyes were huge and moony now. He fluttered his eyelashes at John. 

John wasn't sure. He patted Michael on the head hesitantly. "Good...boy."

At this, Graham burst out laughing. John glared at him, Mike ignored him, Terry Gilliam joined him. 

"What's so bloody funny, Chapman?" John snarled. 

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Graham said. He was turning red in the face. 

Terry G was laughing too. "Good...boy...God, I'm gonna cry."

Michael stepped forward and tried to hush everyone. "Now look," he said, "the reason I came here was because Terry Jones is in his room, very upset for, er, irrelevant reasons. And we need someone to cheer him up in time for doing sketches tonight. You know, so we don't all, uh, DIE."

"I can't do it," Graham slurred. Michael frowned disapprovingly. 

"I have a solution," TG said. "We all put our fingers on our noses and say dibs not on the count of three, and the last one who did it has to go help Terry."

"Okay," Michael said, "one, two, three." They all put their fingers on their noses and said "dibs not" except Graham, who couldn't seem to find his. 

"That settles that, then," John began. Graham's finger slowly weaved over to finally rest on his own nose. 

But Graham was saved. At that moment Eric barged into the room. His hair was a frizzy mess and his shirt was on inside out.

"Uh...what are we doing?" Eric asked. He saw what the silent people around him were doing and he touched his own nose. 

But it was too late. They all shoved Eric into Jonesy's room and slammed the door. 

Eric banged on the door. "Filthy bastards!" he yelled. "Scum! Er...a third expression of defiance!"

Slowly he turned and saw Terry. He was still in a heap on the bed, but he was looking up on Eric now. His face was tear-streaked. 

"Er, hello," Eric said. He awkwardly walked toward Terry. 

"What are you doing here?!"Terry said hoarsely. 

"Oh, I'm bloody well, thanks for asking, Yer Highness," Eric rattled on. But he saw Terry's expression and gave up. "I'm, um, here to talk to you."

"About wot?"

"Oh, whatever you want." Eric edged over and perched on the edge of the uncomfortable bed. He and Terry had never been overly fond of each other. He sighed and supposed that they should put their differences behind them. For the group's sake. For Mike's sake. "How do you feel?"

"Fine, just peachy. Bloody brilliant. That's why I'm lying here in the dark crying. I always do that when I'm happy."

"Ouch," Eric said. "Um. D'you want to talk about it?"

"What's the point?" Terry asked. "We're all going to die tonight. I'm glad. I won't have to suffer anymore."

"Ah, no, we're all going to hell together," Eric said. "Remember, we made plans."

"I'm already there."

"What's the matter, Jonesy?" Eric awkwardly wrapped an arm around Terry's shoulder. He wasn't much of a hugger, but desperate times, yadda yadda. "You can tell me about it."

Terry looked up. "It's Mike. John won't let me see him," he said quietly. "And I like him. We were best friends."

"Oh..." Eric didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright. Save your apologies for someone important."

Terry was so pathetic, Eric couldn't help but scoop him into a hug, although he was internally chuckling at the shorter man's obliviously dramatic mood. "I think we can get John to change his mind."

"No we can't. He's an asshole. And so are you, I don't know why I'm hugging you." But hug him Terry did. 

"Michael's got the man wrapped around his little finger," Eric said. "And Mike loves you."

"Really?" A glimmer of hope showed in Terry's dark eyes. 

"Yeah," Eric said. "'Course he does."

"Thanks." Terry sniffled and made some attempt to pull himself together. "Well, I guess we should go work on figuring out sketches, right?"

That was one of the few things Eric liked about Terry. His moods were intense, but usually over with quickly, and he'd come back to his natural mood, happy. His brain was just naturally content in the same way that a compass needle naturally points north. 

"Sure," Eric said. "Let's go."

They all went to sit in the Terries' room and talk about sketches. It was just like the old days. Graham, drunk in the corner and keeping quiet; John casting longing looks Michael's way and Mike being oblivious toward them; Terry J also casting longing looks Michael's way; Eric being rather too nervous to make any comments or cast any longing looks; and Terry Gilliam in his own little world, drawing (with a burnt stick on the wall).

It was rather difficult to think of sketches that would work. The problem, as Mike so eloquently pointed it out, lay in their time displacement.

Python was, as anyone sensible knew, very funny. It was funny in the sixties, and in the seventies. Fifty years before the sixties? It would probably work. Fifty years later? Hopefully. 

But five hundred years ago? Not a chance. These people barely spoke the same language as they did. They weren't big on entertainment. 

But they had to do it. When the alternative was death, being culturally irrelevant didn't seem so bad after all. 

First off, they made TG go down and request food and drinks for everyone. It was practically a necessity, seeing as how they were terribly thirsty and half starved. They coalesced into their normal writing groups and tried to figure out what would work. Mike and Terry J had an obvious advantage, being the history "experts." John was free to talk at Gray all he wanted. It was how he worked best. Eric made a list inside his head. 

After just a few minutes, they reconnaissanced. 

"We've got a list," Michael began. "Okay. Item one, the parrot sketch. That always seems to go over well, right?"

"I don't think they had parrots back then. I mean, back now," Eric said. 

"That's the issue. So, what do we replace the parrot with?"

"A cow, maybe," Terry Gilliam said. 

"I didn't know Jonesy wanted to be in this sketch," Eric said. 

Terry Jones frowned and grumbled at the cheap dig. Eric smirked. No matter how much he told people he loved them, he'd always tease them. It was so much fun. 

"Cow works," Mike said. "Terry G, I hereby appoint you official Python secretary. You write that down."

"Cool," said Gil. He scribbled COW on the wall. 

"That was my bit," Graham mumbled. 

"Huh?" said Michael.

"Th' parrot bit. That was mine."

"Right," Mike said. 

"You're cutting me out," Graham said. "You're making me redundant."

"You started out like that," John said. 

Graham glowered. "Well...well...your forehead's too big. S'not a forehead. 'S a bloody five-head."

John gaped. "It is not! You insolent quim!"

"Guys," Michael said warningly. "Okay...How about the argument clinic?"

"It won't work," John said. "Trust me on it. It's too subtle and nuanced for these primitive people to comprehend."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Okay, so now people getting hit on the head is subtle and nuanced...Gilliam, could you make a note of 'no argument clinic?'"

After some deliberation on the spelling, Terry G scribbled out NO ARGYUMIMT CLINIK. 

"Lumberjack song?" Mike said hopefully.

"I don't think they have lumberjacks," Terry Jones said. 

"Yeah..."

Terry G wrote NO LUMBIRJAKS. 

"Spanish In—"

"They didn't have Spanish Inquisitions back then either," Graham suddenly added. 

"Yeah, no one would be expecting that," Terry Jones added. Everyone moaned in disgust. John thumped Terry J over the head. 

HIT TERRY JONS ON HED, Terry G wrote. 

"Okay, my last suggestion is the fish-slapping dance," Michael said. 

"I dunno..." Eric said. 

"We have to have it! I love that one!" Michael pleaded. 

"Okay," Eric said. 

Terry J drew a small picture of John hitting Michael over the head with a halibut. 

"I'll go next," John said. "First I thought...Hey, he's been taking silly notes." He pointed at Gilliam. 

The American raised his hands defensively. "Hey, genius, not all of us are literate."

John began to fume, but Michael calmed him, saying "What was that about the sketches, John?"

"Well...I thought the dead parrot one as well, no surprise there." He allowed himself a curt smile. "And Self-Defense Against Fresh Fruit."

("Nice capitalization," Graham murmured.)

"Oh, how're we going to do that?" Terry Jones said, exasperated. 

"Quite well," John said, his voice breaking into that constipated upper-class tone. 

"Oh, yes, just drop a bloody sixteen-ton weight onto me, those aren't hard to come by at all," Terry J said. 

"Right," said John. 

"You insufferable prick, sixteen-ton weights don't grow on trees!" Terry J exploded. "If they did, the world would be a lot more dangerous, okay?"

"It's about to get more dangerous for you if you don't shut UP!" John snapped. "No arguments!"

"Why'd you like that bloody sketch so much anyway?" Eric whined. 

"I LIKE SHOUTING!" John shouted. He calmed his ruffled temper. "We're doing it. We'll find a way."

"Yes, John," Mike said in a simpering fashion. Graham and Jonesy rolled their eyes. "What else?"

"Cheese shop," John said.

Graham's dim eyes brightened a fraction. "Cor," he said. "That one was mine."

"Partly," John said. 

Graham suddenly grew vicious. "Mostly."

"I think not."

"Well, you thought wrong."

"I don't think it's that funny," Eric said. 

Graham gave him a Look. 

"What?" Eric said. 

"We're doing it," John snapped.

"Look, if we're just doing everything John says it's not a democracy," Terry Jones said. "It's autocratic."

"True, we have to treat each other like equals," Eric said. "We are democratic."

"I vote no to that," Terry G said. 

("What a dreadfully silly expression," John hissed. "Shut up."

"But it's my only liiiine!" TG moaned.)

"Well, we're doing it," John said. "I don't have any more recommendations, either."

"Sure," Mike said. "Now, I think Terry had some ideas."

"The Bishop," Terry Jones said immediately. 

"Ohh," Graham moaned. "I don't like that. They won't get it."

"I agree," said Mike. "Plus the sixteen-ton weight..."

"Hypocrite," Eric snapped. 

Terry Jones frowned. "Well, then, the dirty fork one."

"Did they have restaurants back then?" Eric asked. 

"Some equivalent, I believe," Michael said. "Terry G, write that down, we can't have anyone slacking off."

THE ONE WITH THE PUNCHLINE, Terry Gilliam wrote. 

"Ha bloody ha," Graham said. 

"I think we should do Nudge Nudge," Eric said. 

"Yes to that," Mike said. 

THE OTHER ONE WITH THE PUNCHLINE, Terry Gilliam wrote. 

"What about you, Graham?" Michael said. 

Graham wavered. "Me too," he said uncertainly.

Mike rolled his eyes. 

"Well," John said, "we've got them together, now let's practice."

Mike and John went to work immediately on rehearsing the Dead Parrot sketch. The rest of them decided to do the Restaurant sketch. Since Carol Cleveland was absent, they decided to use Terry Jones for the wife, much to his chagrin. Someone found a nasty mop, pulled the end off and put it on Terry's head for a wig. 

He sat there as Eric and TG tried to force Gray to remember his lines, and stared at John and Michael. 

John was gesturing at an invisible cow and saying, "'E's dead, that's what's wrong with it!"

"More indignant," Mike whispered. 

Mike was the only one who'd tell John what to do like that. He was the only one John would listen to, too. John repeated his line. 

"No, no. He's, er, he's resting," Mike said. He smiled at John. 

"Look, matey..." John couldn't help but smile back at Mike. He coughed. "Look, matey, I know a dead par—I mean, cow, when I see one..."

Terry turned back to where they were sitting around an invisible table on the floor. 

"Go on, Terry, say your line again," Eric said, simultaneously pleading and persecuting Terry J with his eyes. 

"It's nice here, isn't it," Terry said stiffly. 

"Now you," Eric hissed to Gray. 

"I...er..."

"Very good restaurant. Three stars, you know!" Eric hissed to Gray. 

"Very good restaurant...three stars..." Graham trailed off. 

"What comes after that?" Eric said. 

"Fucked if I know. Not my sketch," Terry Jones said bitterly. 

Eric sighed. "Well, maybe someone should remember the lines of their own choice."

"I wanted The Bishop!"

"They won't get the reference!" Eric said. 

"I don't see why I have to be the wife," Terry Jones said. "Couldn't it be Gil?"

They'd changed Jonesy's part of the original sketch and put Gilliam in. 

"No," Eric said, "because you're you."

"What's that mean?" Terry Jones said. 

"Sometimes we need a fat dumpy transvestite," Eric said, glowering and standing upright. 

Terry Jones got up too. He was shaking with barely-suppressed anger bottled up into a 5'8" 170 pound frame. 

"I'll fucking punch you out," Terry Jones growled. "Bloody skinny twig."

"Sure," Eric said smoothly. He tossed his grubby sport coat to the ground and unbuttoned his shirt. Graham's eyes suddenly focused. Eric was skinny, but in a wiry way. He was tall and when his shirt dropped to the stone floor you could see how defined his body was. You could see the knotted muscles in his arms flex as he clenched his fists. "Go on, Jonesy," he said calmly.

"Oh, take your shirt off, that scares me," Terry muttered. 

"OoooOH, take youw shiwt off, that scawes me," Eric mimicked him. 

Terry's face wrinkled up. He didn't know what to do. Smack Eric or run off or cry. Maybe all three. 

Terry Gilliam got up too. "Hey, Eric, maybe—"

"Fuck off, pleb," Eric snarled. "This is between us." He turned back to Jones and smirked. "Say 'R,' motherfucker. Do it."

Terry J's lower lip trembled. 

"Oooh, look at the baby! SAY R, YOU FAT CUNT!"

Jonesy couldn't take it. He launched himself at Eric. Eric was prepared for this. But he wasn't prepared for the tough grip Terry had on his bare shoulders. 

What does a short, nerdy Welsh kid with a speech impediment do when he has to make his way in the world? 

He learns to fight dirty. 

Eric yowled as Terry's knee planted itself firmly in the taller man's groin. He doubled over and moaned powerlessly to himself. Terry backed off a bit, unsure. Eric Idle proved his last name a lie as he flew at the smaller man. They toppled to the ground. Eric sat on Terry's chest but his small weight wasn't enough to choke him. Hopefully his hands would finish the job off...but when he wrapped his fingers around Jones' neck he leaned forward. Big mistake. 

Terry grabbed Eric's long, pretty hair and yanked it. Eric let out another scream of pain. It felt like he was being scalped. He pressed down on Terry's windpipe. It did nothing to assuage the onslaught of fiery pain. Eric forgot about trying to murder Terry. His hands flew to his head. Terry's fingers were entwined in Eric's hair. No way they'd come out. 

"Fuck!" Eric squealed. "You monster! Fuck!"

Terry rolled forward, toppling Eric over so that he was sitting on his chest now. Eric wheezed. His arms were trapped under Terry's legs and his face was completely red. Terry still hadn't released his hair. 

"Stop!" Eric yelped. "Please!"

"Under one condition," Terry said. 

"Anything, anything—ow!"

"Repeat after me: Terry Jones is smarter than me, and cuter."

"Terry Jones is a shit-eating—OW! OW, you'll rip it off! TerryJonesissmarterthanme,andcuter."

"I am not worthy to lick the dust off his boots," Terry said. 

"I am not worthy to lick the dust off his boots." Eric sighed audibly as the pulling on his long hair decreased a bit. 

"I am Terry Jones' bitch."

"Don't make me say that, Tel, I was only teasing...OW! FUCK! I'm Terry J's bitch!" he said, tears in his eyes. 

"Now I want you to promise you won't make fun of me ever again. Or you'll get what's coming to you."

"I promise I won't ever again. I'll be your friend, Terry. Please let me go."

Terry released Eric and sprung away, not trusting him. But Eric was nothing if not a man of his word. He just sat up and massaged the roots of his hair, moaning and wincing. 

Terry looked over at the other two. Gilliam and Gray were staring. After a moment, Graham started clapping. 

"Alright," TJ said, "let's do Nudge Nudge...motherfuckers."

But when the rehearsal had finished, and they started making attempts at the Dirty Fork again, Terry Jones couldn't help but stare back at Mike and John. They were running over the dead parrot—I mean cow sketch over and over. Usually neither of them had any trouble with their lines, but apparently...

John was using a completely incorrect intonation for his lines. The further he got, the more like a gently provocative purr his voice sounded. 

And at the end of his rant, he said "this is an ex-pa—I mean, cow," in nearly a whisper, gazing into Michael's eyes. 

Mike was silent before he remembered that he had to speak. "Oh...I'd better replace it, then." He was supposed to look around at the shop, but he just kept staring at John. "Sorry, I've had a look 'round the back of the shop, and...we're right out of pa, I mean cows," he said seductively. 

John smirked. "I see, I get the picture."

Michael licked his lips. "I got a slug." He fluttered his eyelashes demurely.

"Pray...does it talk?" John said. One of his fingers traced up Mike's jawline. 

Mike breathed in deeply. His eyes fell closed. "Nnnot really."

John leaned in. His mouth was nearly touching Mike's neck. He said, his breath drawing blissful shudders from the very root of the younger man's being:

"Well...it's hardly a bloody replacement, is it?..."

Mike bit his lip and looked into John's grey eyes. He picked a bit of dust off John's collar. "I guess not." He pouted. 

"Well," John said. His voice was low and husky, almost the opposite of its usual self. Mike found it intoxicating. 

"Do you..." Mike trailed off and continued in a whisper. "D'you want to come back to my place?"

John never, ever went off-script. But there had to be an exception to prove the rule, right? 

"Actually," he said, "perhaps we could continue right here."

Mike's face flushed. "I could make room to lie down between the toads and the hedgehogs," he said, still not breaking that seductive tone. He walked down an imaginary stage, around an imaginary pet shop counter, never one to break character. He stared into John's eyes again, never wanting to look away. Then he sort of twined his body around John's in a soft, giving, nearly feminine sort of way. He bit his lip again, knowing how much it drove John mad. 

"That would be lovely." John tilted his head back as Mike gently kissed his neck. 

"That parrot isn't going to be the only thing getting nailed," Mike said. 

"You'd better not let me escape," John retorted. He trailed his fingers down Michael's sides. Michael was ticklish, and it sent strong vibrations through his body.

"Oh, Joh...I mean, Mister Praline," Mike said huskily. 

"I wish to register a complaint about the lack of your hands on my bottom."

Meanwhile, Terry Jones had just convinced Eric to let the other Terry play the wife. This meant that Terry Gilliam and Graham would be repeating the two lines over and over again, trying to hammer them into the drunken imbecile's head. And this meant that Jonesy was doing absolutely nothing, which gave him time to stare in a creepy fashion at John and Mike. 

He remembered what Eric said and he thought it was a good idea. (Sure, Eric and Terry fought, but deep down they were friends. Well, sort of.) He sighed, prayed to Spike Milligan that John wouldn't kick his ass, and got up. 

Michael was still macking on John. Terry J knocked on the imaginary pet shop door. They both looked up. 

"A customer," said Mike. 

"Ignore it."

"I can't." One last longing kiss between them (John was finally getting used to this) and Mike broke off. He waved at Terry to come in. 

Terry came in and leaned against the nonexistent counter. 

"How may we help you?" Mike said jovially. He lit a cigarette. 

"Mike, I want to talk to you."

Mike dropped the act. "Oh, what about?" he said softly. 

"About us."

"Oh. I understand." After a moment, Mike surreptitiously jerked his head toward John and gave Terry a questioning look. D'you want him to come?

Terry nodded. Probably for the best. 

"John?" Mike said. "Would you step outside for a moment?"

"What's—" John began. 

"Sh. We'll talk about it there."

Mike steered John's unwilling body out the door. Terry followed them into their room. Mike closed the door. 

Michael pushed Terry down onto the bed in a manner frighteningly reminiscent of Oxford days, but this time it didn't mean anything at all. 

"What are we talking about, Tel?" he said. 

"Um...well...Iwantedtoknowwhywecan'tkeepgoingout," Terry said very quietly and quickly. 

"What?" John said, his voice strident. "If this is some kind of joke I'm afraid I must ask you to—"

"Shush, John," Mike said. "He wants to know why we can't keep going out. And frankly, I do as well."

"What kind of ridiculous question is that? You're mine and mine only, you know that—"

"You know, there is such a thing as being too clingy!" Mike snapped. He sat on the bed beside Terry and crossed his arms. "He's one of my best friends. I have to see him, even if it's just as friends."

"I don't like that tone you're taking with me."

"What are you?! My fucking dad?!" Mike said. He was barely restraining himself from screaming again. 

"No, but I know what's best for you—"

"Well, you're just like my dad!" Mike said. "Controlling and selfish and cold and angry. And contradictory!"

"No I'm not!" John said. 

Terry felt even more awkward than he'd been anticipating. He'd made them fight. He'd never seen Mike fight anyone before. 

"Why can't you be more like Graham?" Mike said. "He'd be understanding."

"Graham isn't your friend," John said. "I'm your only friend, you know that. You should be grateful I'll even touch you."

Mike stood up. "Just because I'm nice doesn't mean I'll just lie here while you walk all over me. I'm nice, and I'm nice to myself too. You don't fit in my plan right now. Get out."

"Don't tell me to get—"

"Get. Out."

Something in Mike's tone forced John to obey. For a moment John and Terry both saw him as something else. A cuddly teddy bear full of nitroglycerin. 

When John was gone the strange aura left Mike. He turned around to Terry and smiled sweetly. "I'm sorry about that. Now we can talk."

"I...I'm sorry," Terry said hesitantly. 

"Don't be," Mike said. "He gets like that. I have to remind him he's not really in charge of me."

"Wow..."

Michael sighed. "But maybe I shouldn't have been so harsh. We have to rehearse."

"You're well rehearsed already."

"...What if we don't make it, Tel?" Mike said in a small voice. "What if they don't laugh? Then we'll be..."

"We won't," Terry said. "I know we won't. You're the funniest chap I know."

Michael cried a bit. He leaned into Terry and wrapped his arms around him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Terry whispered. This made Mike giggle for some reason. "I know you can deal with this. You're very strong," Terry said in a more serious voice. 

He didn't know what was going on when Mike kissed him. His eyes opened in shock to see Michael's closed. He could barely breathe. 

It had been so, so long. 

"Oh, Terry," Michael moaned softly when he broke the kiss. 

Terry backed away. "We shouldn't be doing this..."

"Why not?" Michael was running his fingers through Terry's hair lovingly and staring at his mouth. 

"John might find out...He'll know."

"Oh, he needs to loosen up." Michael immediately went for Jonesy's neck, knowing how much he liked it. 

"I can't do this, Mikey, I can't," Terry said urgently. 

"What if John joined in?" Mike said, his voice still low and smoky. "Would you like that?"

"He wouldn't do that. I..." I'm impossibly jealous, Terry should've said. I can't stand the thought of that man laying his grubby hands on you. Or Eric touching you. Or Gray. Or even Helen...and I can't help it. "I can't."

To his credit, Mike took note and let go of Terry. He stared into his eyes. "Are you sure? I can get John to do absolutely anything I want."

That was the side of Mike no one often got to see. The manipulative side. The one that knew exactly what the puppy dog eyes were doing. Sure, he'd always be nice, but he wasn't a pushover, and part of him just looked out for himself and no one else. 

"Really?" Terry murmured.

"Yes." Mike fiddled with Terry's shirt collar. "He's wrapped around my little finger. He wants nothing more than to serve me, and who knows, I might give him that privilege someday..."

Terry looked down. 

"And you feel the same, don't you, Tel?" Mike purred. "You can change your mind. Please me like I know you want to."

Terry's mouth had gone dry. "I...I can't...John would..."

"You're a good man," Mike said after a pause. "I love you very much."

"Mike..."

Michael kicked off his shoes. He pulled his sport jacket off. His dress shirt was still in tatters about John's leg, so his white undershirt was the only thing covering him where his collared button-down should've been. 

He flopped over idly on the bed and pulled his notebook and pencil out. 

"Um, shouldn't you be rehearsing?"

"I need a break," Mike said offhandedly. "It's insane out there...you and me, Terry, we're the only normal people here."

"I'm not even normal," Terry murmured. 

Michael looked up from his scribbling and smiled impishly. "Well, weird in a good way. Unique. Pristine in the original sense of the word."

"Thanks, I guess. You too." Terry sighed. 

"Don't you wish we could be out there? Looking at the architecture, the culture, the customs."

"The polio, the plague, the gonhorrea," Terry said. 

"I think those fall under culture," Mike said. "C'mon, Tel, don't you want to get outside? This is our own history we're looking at! And it's passing us by!"

"I don't know. I need to rehearse."

Terry got up. Mike yanked his sleeve and pulled him back down. 

"I've got a trick Eric showed me," Mike said. "Imagine a box."

"What kind of box?"

"I dunno. A shoebox."

"Does it have to be a shoebox? I was thinking one of those orange crates—"

"The kind of box doesn't matter!" Mike said enthusiastically. "Okay. Imagine a box. And you take everything you're worrying about, and you put it in the box and you lock it up."

"I can't lock a bloody orange crate," Terry said. 

"Well, put it under your bed or something. And don't open it for, say, an hour or so. All your worries are somewhere else and you don't need them."

Terry tried it. Incredibly, he did feel himself relaxing. His troubles melting away like butter on a hot frying pan...mm, butter, he thought...

Wait. No. He couldn't do this. 

He opened his eyes. Mike was lying on the bed, his face serene and blissful. Terry poked him. "Mike?"

"What?"

"I think it's all very good to reduce your stress and meditate and stuff. But I think maybe it's not that good when, you know, the imminent possibility of a horrible death looms in our immediate future?"

Michael opened his eyes and sighed. "...You're right, you know."

"Yeah. C'mon."

When they came back out they found that the others had finally got the point through Graham's thick stubborn skull. Graham was now reciting his lines pretty much perfectly. 

They all rehearsed the restaurant sketch and it went off almost without a hitch on the first try. They were all very pleased. They'd finally got in sync. 

This was the kind of attitude that made them stay up until 4 AM laughing and talking and writing together. This was the state they always aimed for. It was genius, pure and simple, and it was bloody amazing. 

They rehearsed the rest of the sketches and debated about costumes and props and finished the food off and just generally had a good time. In the midst of it, one of them crept off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Touching your nose and saying dibs not is totally a real thing by the way http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Dibs%20not


	6. Wild Honey Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terry Gilliam gets a chapter all to himself :o

Predictably, the one who'd snuck off was Terry Gilliam. Sure, being passed by a lot of the time had its drawbacks, but it also had benefits. 

He made his way downstairs and explored the castle. 

He was no history nerd (read: Terry Jones or Mike Palin) but he could appreciate a good castle. 

Wow, he thought as he went down the spiral staircase. This sure is a...a castle. Sure is.

His hand absently brushed a rare, priceless gilded tapestry and got chicken grease on it. 

Wow...those sure are some knights, he thought, passing a suit of armor. 

Wow. 

He eventually made his way down to the basement. This contained the kitchen and the laundry room, and the bedrooms for the servants. 

The laundry room was warm and steamy and it felt relatively clean. It made Terry long for his missed bath. 

"Yo," he said to a servant. 

"Good morrow," said the servant. 

"Hey. Could I have some clothes?"

The servant directed him to some clean peasant-ish clothes that were hanging on a line in a courtyard. Terry thanked the servant and went outside. 

It looked cloudy and it felt cool out. Terry ripped some suitable clothes off the line. 

He walked through the village until he got to a pond. Not many people were around. He had no qualms about stripping naked, attempting to bathe in a pond (which disturbed some ducks) and changing into his stolen clothes. With his ragged hair and generally grubby appearance, he fit in perfectly. 

He walked around and said "Yo" to people some more. Mostly they just gave him weird looks. 

Who'd have thought time travel could be so boring?...

He wandered into a copse of trees and sat down. He found a crabapple tree and ingested some of the bitter fruit. It made him feel sick. 

He felt sleepy. 

Something moved by his foot. Then again. He heard a rustling noise and felt a sharp pain in his foot. 

"Ow," he murmured. He swatted at whatever was bugging his foot. 

He opened his eyes. He had black feathers in his hand. 

He looked down. A magpie was perched on his foot. 

"Caw," said the magpie. 

"Aah," said Terry. "I mean, shoo! Get out!" He kicked his foot. 

The magpie jumped and settled back on his shin. "Caw. No," it said. 

"Why you little..." Something struck Terry's mind. "Hey, what?"

"I said no," said the magpie. "I mean, uh, caw."

I must be dreaming, Terry Gilliam thought. Oh, well. 

"Why?" Terry said. 

The magpie cocked its head. "You know, I hadn't thought of that."

"Oh. Well, then," Terry said. 

The magpie hopped away from Terry. "You're not going to yell?" it said. "Or run away?"

"No," Terry said. "I'm used to strange stuff."

"Oh." The magpie hopped idly. "You talk funny."

"I'm from Minnesota," Terry said. "Oh. And the 20th Century."

"Really?"

Terry nodded. 

"I think I have someone— I mean, something to show you..."

The magpie plucked at his trouser leg until he got up. Then it hopped off into the forest. It glanced back at him, a beady eye rolling around in its skull. 

"Come on," it said impatiently, "we haven't got all day."

"Oh, okay," Terry said.

Some people might be fazed by a talking magpie telling them to follow into a mystical dark forest. Terry was not one of them. He sort of just took it in stride. 

He gazed around at the scenery as he followed the bird. He didn't really have the vocabulary to describe the gentle play of dappled sunlight over the mossy earth, or the bittersweet brown smell of dying leaves, or the feeling of something overwhelmingly increasingly strange coming up ahead. But that didn't prevent his enjoyment of all of the above. 

The forest was getting darker. At first Terry thought it was just nearing evening, but it wasn't nearly that late, and he realized that the trees were growing thicker overhead. 

The strange tingly feeling intensified. 

"Hey, where are we going?" he asked the magpie. 

"I can't tell you that, but I can tell you that we're almost there."

"Helpful," Terry murmured. 

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and scowled. He felt he was being played for a fool, and he didn't like that. He got enough of that from the other Pythons. 

He could feel a definite tingling in his fingers and toes now. He would have thought it was just something messed up with his circulation, but he looked down at his hands and little yellow sparks were popping from his fingernails. 

"Shit," he murmured, examining them. He didn't look where he was going, though, and accidentally tripped over the magpie, which had stopped. 

The bird squawked and pecked Terry's shins vengefully. "Watch your step, mammal!"

"I'm not a mammal," Terry said as he got up. 

The bird sighed. "You wait here. And put your hands over your eyes! No peeking!"

Terry followed the first two instructions. Not the second one. 

He watched between his fingers. The magpie hopped up to a large, knotted tree, and pecked on it three times. After a moment, a section of the tree slid into the ground. Terry had to stop his jaw from dropping. 

The bird hopped through the strange doorway and down some stairs into darkness. The door slid back up. 

Terry waited for a moment. He decided that he was either tripping or dreaming. He couldn't help himself from approaching the tree. He examined it. There was no sign of a door in the bark. 

Curiosity killed the cat, he thought, but satisfaction brought it back. 

He rapped sharply three times on the tree. The section of it slid smoothly into the earth. 

Terry looked into the tree. It was hollow. There was a staircase leading down into the earth inside it. A faint glow emanated from somewhere far below. 

I shouldn't go down there, Terry thought. The sensible course of action would be to leave and go back to the castle. I'm in enough crap as it is, I don't need to mess with this trippy shit. 

Satisfied with this decision, he then of course completely ignored it and followed the magpie down the stairs. 

There was an odd musty smell of books and pipe smoke. It reminded Terry of Graham Chapman. 

Insects skittered away from his footfalls as he headed deep into the earth. It felt like the stairs spiraled down forever. 

But the glow from downstairs was growing brighter with every step he took, and so were the sparks from his fingertips. They were jetting off in a continuous spray now. It was a bit distracting. It looked painful but it just felt tingly. 

He could hear voices. He stood still and listened very closely. 

He heard the magpie's squawk. "...says he's from someplace called Minnesota."

They were talking about him! He sharpened his ears. 

"Did you get his name?" came another voice, a deep female one. 

"Caw. No."

"...This is strange."

"You don't say," said the magpie. 

"Don't take that tone with me."

He thought he must've been tripping. But it didn't feel like it. This felt real. 

He looked down at his hands. They looked the same as always, minus the sparks...The air felt thick and greasy, like before a thunderstorm. 

He tuned back in to the conversation occurring downstairs. 

"...You must go fetch him. Bring him to me."

Shit, Terry thought. They'll know I didn't wait. 

He didn't know what to do, so he walked down the rest of the stairs...

They led into a cave underground. It was dark, lit by a fire in a fireplace in the corner. The walls were lined with bookshelves and cupboards. Something that looked remarkably like the head of a dragon adorned one wall. 

In the center of the room, stirring something in a cauldron, stood a tall, dark-skinned, green-haired woman. She was wearing a black robe with green dragons embroidered down it and had a pipe shoved in her mouth. She made eye contact with him and her gaze sliced his confidence in twain as easily as a hot knife through butter. 

Terry was in love. 

"Who are you?" she said. 

"Uh, Terry. Terry Gilliam."

"From Minnesota?"

Terry nodded in wonder. 

"What are you doing in here?" She advanced upon him. She had a couple of inches on him; she was easily the height of Eric Idle. She removed the pipe from her mouth in a way that, again, reminded him uncomfortably of Graham. She had strangely green eyes that matched her long hair. "How dare you enter my residence without permission?"

"Uhm...the bird let me in," Terry lied. 

"Is this true?" the woman asked the magpie. 

"Caw! No! No, I swear—"

"Get out."

"Wha?" said the magpie. 

"Out!" she barked. The bird grumbled and hopped away. 

"You'll pay for this, mammal," it snapped at Terry, who was lost. 

The woman waited until the bird was gone. Then she looked back at Terry. She'd sounded angry in an icy way, but her gaze belied her; she didn't look mad, just curious. 

"Minnesota?" she said. Terry bobbed his head. 

"God," she sighed. "You're the first person from the 20th century I've met since I ended up in this hellhole."


	7. I'm Looking Through You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more drama + mike is a slut

On the very top floor of a pathetic castle somewhere in Britain, five guys emerged from a small cold room, laughing and talking in a way that contradicted their glum surroundings entirely. They'd rehearsed for ages and were exhausted by it, but in a good way. No mysterious chair-throwing incidents or temper tantrums thrown in the mud would happen today. 

The sun had just passed the apex of the sky and was slowly sinking toward the treeline. 

They stood in the hall and talked for a while. Eidola stuck her head out of Eric's bedroom door. She spotted her prey and grabbed it. 

Eric blinked as he was hauled off. "Oh, hello..."

"Come here, you animal..."

The door was slammed shut again. Within moments, you could hear breathy giggling from the room. 

Meanwhile, Michael and Terry Jones had been murmuring and suddenly began heading off. 

John stepped forward. "Mike, where do you think you're going?..."

"Oh, Terry and I wanted to go explore the castle!" Mike chirped. 

"It's historically relevant," Terry added. 

"That is, if you're alright with it," Mike said. 

John bit his lip. Someone put their hand on his shoulder. An ethanol-scented voice in his ear whispered, "Sure."

"Sure?" John repeated, confused. 

"Yayy! Thanks, John," Michael said. He and Terry ran off, giggling and going on about the historical significance. 

John frowned and turned around. "Gray, what was that?"

"John, if you keep stifling Mike, he's going to want to escape," Graham said. "You have to give him some slack. He loves you, he won't do anything rash."

"But..."

"Listen, I know you're protective, but just let it be. Trust me."

"...Does he really love me?" John murmured. 

"Of course he does," Graham said. "I can see it. It's almost the same way...the same way David looks at me."

They were silent for a moment. Then John said: "I guess you're right."

"As always." Graham smiled and lit his pipe. 

They stood there and talked about the show tonight. They were both feeling cautiously optimistic. Then, Graham realized:

"Hey, I think one of us is missing."

"I dunno," John said. "Eric's with that girl, Mikey and Jonesy are off exploring, you're here, I'm here..."

"Terry Gilliam!" they said simultaneously. 

"Where is he?" Graham said. "We can't do the show without him...wow, there's something I never thought I'd say."

"The idiot...he must have snuck off on his own!" John said. He started pacing quickly, hands clasped behind his back, voice strident and clipped as he began to enter panic mode. "What are we going to do?! We're going to die! Gray, we're—"

Graham grabbed the taller man by his arms. "Calm down, John. Death is something to be avoided, not feared."

"Well, how are we going to avoid it this time?!"

"We'll find him! He can't have gone that far. I don't think he's smart enough to open doors."

"Right, right." John sighed. "Well, let's get to it."

They walked downstairs. Graham was stoic. John looked a bit pissed off. 

They asked the first person they saw. It was a dark-haired teenage boy holding a bow and arrows. 

"Say, have you seen a strange man with ugly hair pass by here?" Graham asked.

The boy shrugged. 

"About yea tall, face like a bag of spanners?" John added. 

"Looks like he dove headfirst into the shallow end of the gene pool?" Gray said. 

"Intelligence of a brain-damaged seagull?"

"Oh, that's mean. Those poor seagulls."

The boy rolled his eyes and began to walk off. 

"Talks lahk disss?" John said helplessly. 

The boy turned back around. "Actually, that sounds familiar. I think he left about half an hour ago, heading towards the Sinister Forest." He pointed off to the left of the castle. 

"Oh, Sinister Forest. Sounds lovely," Graham said. 

"Thank you, my lad," John said. The two turned in sync and walked off toward the forest. 

And before long, John noticed yellow sparks jumping from his fingertips...

Meanwhile, Jonesy and Mike were exploring the castle. They'd found a torture dungeon which appeared to be out of use. 

"Look at this rack," Terry said. He turned the rack. 

Mike examined a pair of shackles that were attached to the wall. "Hey, Terry."

"What?" Terry waddled over. 

"Look at these. Come here." Mike smirked. "Wouldn't you like me to chain you up in these?"

Terry blushed and ran his fingers through his curly hair. "I don't..."

"Oh, would you rather it be me?" Michael's voice became husky. "Tied up, forced to obey your every command." He stuck his hands through the manacles above his head. "Oh, Terry..." he moaned. "Wouldn't you like that?"

Terry frowned. 

"What is it?" Mike said. He pouted, thinking maybe he wasn't trying hard enough. "Terry, I want you, I want—"

"You've got a boyfriend, Mike!" Terry's voice was strangled. "And a wife! Why are you doing this?"

"They won't know," Mike said. 

"Yeah, but you'll know! How can you do this? To John, to me?"

"Graham and David sleep around," Michael said. "It's normal."

"Yeah, but John doesn't want you doing that. You're breaking his trust."

"Fuck trust!" Michael said. "Fuck that, I want you!" He took his hands out of the cuffs. 

"I can't do this! I can't be your second choice."

Mike chuckled darkly and trailed one warm finger down Terry's cheek. "But you're not."

"Then why are you with John?"

Michael shrugged. He looked discomfited. 

They stared at each other. Terry's face was still, but he had butterflies in his stomach. Very large butterflies. The kind you find in Brazil and stuff. 

Michael said, "But you don't like John, do you? I know you. You hold grudges. You want to pay him back." He stepped forward into Terry's personal space. "And what better way to do that than fuck his boyfriend behind his back?"

"I'm not that kind of person, Mike. And I didn't think you were, either. But I guess I was wrong." Terry crossed his arms. "You seem nice, but you're just as manipulative as everyone else. And you don't even have the decency to do it in the open."

"You're right." Mike bit his lip. "I'm a bad boy, Terry. I need to be punished."

"I won't condone this!" Terry snapped. He span around and began walking off. 

His arms were grabbed. He was pinned roughly to the wall by Michael. He stared up into his eyes, eyes that seemed green in the light of day but were now murky and dark. 

"You want this," Michael said. "Go ahead. Look me in the eye and say you don't want it."

"I...I," Terry stammered. He could feel Mike's body heat and it was doing crazy things to those giant butterflies in his stomach. 

"I knew it," Michael said. He nuzzled into Terry's cheek. "It's not your fault. I'm forcing it on you, okay? I'm to blame here. You're innocent."

You're weak, Terry berated himself. So weak. You're practically ruining their relationship. 

"Oh, Mike," he said, his voice trembling. 

"You're fuckin' sexy, you know that, Terry?" Michael said. "You can't tell normally but you are."

And Mike owned Terry just like that. 

The shorter man kissed him back, trying to communicate those feelings he didn't have words for. Michael was pinning him down, running his hands over his body, giving him rough little nips over every exposed inch of skin. Terry gave in easily, closed his eyes. 

Fade to black just as the clothes start flying off...

Back to Terry Gilliam's storyline. 

They had introduced themselves. The tall woman's name was Aislin and she was an enchantress. Apparently the magpie's name was Cawdor. Terry's name was Terry. 

They were talking excitedly about how odd it was to find someone from the 20th century. Aislin had made tea. Terry was just finishing the story. 

"...and we walked up the hill, found a castle, and ended up staying there," Terry was saying. "And also I guess we have to do a show tonight or else we'll be, uh, drawn and quartered. And stuff."

"And you're from...Monty Python?" Aislin said. 

Terry nodded. "We do, like, comedy and stuff. We started in 1969."

"Oh, explains it. I was in 1967 when I got here."

"How did you get here?"

She looked down into her tea. "Witchcraft isn't to be screwed around lightly with. I learned that the hard way."

"Wow...so do you know how to get back to your original time?"

She shrugged. "I've never tried it. Partly it's because I think it was just meant to be. And I honestly like it a lot more. I'm introverted. I don't like all the noise and smells of the city, not to mention the people. Here it's just me and my books of spells. And Cawdor."

"But...could you? I don't want to be rude, but me and the guys, we all have careers and families to get back to."

"Maybe," she said. "I'd need some specific spells to reverse the curse put on you by the ouija board. And we'd need to find intersecting leylines...and wait until Mercury starts to retrograde. But it could be done."

Terry took this all in stride, too. "That would be great. Is there anything we can do that will help?"

"Just leave it to me," Aislin said. "I'll figure it out. I know what I'm doing. But I'll need payment."

"What kind?"

"Magical artifacts," she said. "Something I need for a spell...I've got it. I need the egg of a dragon."

"How do I get that?"

"Take it from the clutch of the dragon, silly," she said. "There's one that lives in the Sinister Mountain a few miles from here. It terrorizes the nearby village of Blakely Downs every so often. If I have its egg I can create a spell to slay it, but it's too dangerous for me to try."

"What if it's too dangerous for us?"

"You're not weak, are you?" She was smirking. It made Terry's bones turn to gelatin. "You're a strong man. You can do it."

"Yes, yes," Terry drooled. 

"When you retrieve the egg and deliver it to me, I will cast a spell to return you to your proper time," Aislin finished. 

"It would be my pleasure," Terry said. 

"Excell—" She stopped mid-sentence and looked up. "There's another disturbance in the leylines."

"Huh?"

She ignored him. She took a scrying glass out from beneath the table, wiped it off, and stared into it with a look of deep concentration. In a moment she said:

"Two more from your time near here. Both tall, one has a pipe. Do you know them?"

"Is one black-haired and one blond, and are they both assholes?" Terry said. 

"Definitely."

Terry sighed. "Yeah."

"What should we do?"

"I guess we should go and explain it all to them."

"Very well."

He followed her back upstairs. The stairwell was still dark and musty. Terry couldn't stop looking down at the sparks of magic jetting from his hands. 

When they reached the top, Terry could hear John and Graham arguing outside. 

"...Stupid fucking forest. Stupid trees." Graham was moaning.

"I still don't get where these sparks are coming from," John said. "This is really odd." He was still limping a bit. 

"I know. Terry just had to run off..."

John and Gray were silenced by the appearance from a tree of Terry and Aislin. They gawked. 

"Hey," Terry said. 

"...Where the fuck you been, mate?" Graham said. 

Eventually they got everything all explained, although it took a while. John and Graham, especially the latter, were both by nature more skeptical than Terry. But it was the most reasonable explanation, even if it did make Graham strongly want a gin and slimline tonic with ice but no lemon in. 

After much debating about the proper way to steal a dragon egg, the three men went back to the castle. Aislin went back into the tree. 

Cawdor the magpie, watching from a tree branch, rolled its eyes. 

"Mammals."


	8. Across the Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some things happen. rated NC-17  
>  ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Upstairs in the castle, two dark-haired men were attempting to rehearse some more. 

"...and I say, 'You shot him. You shot him dead!'" Michael said. "And John says, 'Well, he was attacking me with a banana.'"

Terry snickered at Michael's imitation of John's voice. "But you told him to!"

"'Look, I'm only doing me job...'"

For some, it would've been awkward to consummate one's relationship with one's coworker and go right back to work afterward. Not for Jonesy and Mike. They were close enough in more ways than one for it to solidify their relationship rather than make it weird. 

But Terry still felt like crap. 

They both needed showers desperately now, too, even more than before. Terry's already curly, messy hair was sticking up in all directions. He'd tried to smush it down, to no avail. 

He kept on working through the guilt, though. He decided that Mike had just made a rash decision by sleeping with him. Mike would be easily forgiven, but it would be harder for Terry to forgive himself. 

And, deep inside, his conscience was railing, against both him and Mike. 

Mike shouldn't have done that, he thought. It was a mistake, but it was a mistake that had led to pain for Terry, and pain for John if he ever found out, and should've led to guilt for Mike but apparently Mike had no conscience. Okay. 

Anyway...

Eric stuck his head through the door and said, "And pointed sticks," with a grin. He strolled the rest of the way into the room. He was wearing an unbuttoned shirt and boxers and strumming a funny-looking guitar, something Mike and Terry both identified as a lute. 

Mike waved and kept reciting John's lines. "Shut up." "Suppose I'm attacked by a man with a banana and I haven't got a gun?" "Run for it."

"You could stand and scream for help," Terry said. He was sitting on the bed. 

They continued through the rest of the sketch like that, after which Eric Idle proceeded to flop over on the bed beside Terry. 

"Idle," Terry grumbled. 

"Jones." Eric strummed his guitar. 

"Idle," said Michael. 

"Palin," said Eric. 

"Jones," said Terry. "Wait, what?"

"Where did you get that?" Michael said, pointing at the lute.

"What?...oh, the bendy guitar? It was in Eidola's room." He strummed it again. 

"The lute," Mike corrected him. 

"Gesundheit," Eric said. "And did those feet...in ancient times..." he started singing. 

"Play some Dylan," Terry said. 

Eric smirked and made a G chord. "Mama, take this badge from me..."

Terry and Mike both smiled and chimed in. "I can't use it any more."

It's gettin' dark, too dark to see  
Feels like I'm knocking on heaven's door

None of them noticed as a small crowd formed outside the bedroom door as Eric played and they all sang. When they finally stopped, Eric turned around to see around fifteen peasants crowded around the entryway, fascinated by the music. 

"Oh, er, hello," Eric said. 

One of the peasants mumbled a greeting and stared at the lute. 

"I think they want you to play more, Eric," Mike said. 

"Oh, alright." Eric grinned. "This one was written by two, er, mystical prophets called John Lennon and Paul McCartney, who took it upon themselves to free the world from pride and greed with the power of Music—"

"Oh, come off it," Terry Jones said with a smile. 

"Okay!" Eric said. "This one's called Across the Universe."

And as the chords rang out through the room and the impromptu audience settled down on the stone floor, a strange warmth began spreading through Eric's body. He didn't recognize it at first, but then he realized—it was the feeling that everything was going to turn out alright. 

It was a few minutes before John, Graham, and Terry G made their way back to the castle, flanked by yeomen who had been tasked by Lord Iain to help find them after they'd mysteriously gone missing. 

"Go on, now," John was saying to one of the burly yeomen. He attempted to shoo them away. 

There were five or so of them. They all had longbows and sheathes of arrows slung over their backs. The tallest one was easily a foot shorter than John. 

The yeomen glared wordlessly at John. 

"They're starting to give me the heebie-jeebies," Terry whispered to Graham, who nodded. 

When they entered the castle they were scolded and threatened some more by the lord. John tried to explain that they'd simply been trying to find Terry. Graham made rude faces the entire time from behind the lord's back, which made the other two giggle when they were trying to be serious. After asking "What's so funny?!" for the seventh time, Lord Iain finally let them return back upstairs. 

"This place is really empty," Terry noticed. "Weren't there more servants and stuff before?"

"He's right," Graham said to John. "Where are they? I'm dying for a drink..."

But they found out soon enough. 

They tramped alone up the spiraled stone staircase, John first, then Graham, then Terry. 

John paused in his labored limp up the steps. "Wait, I hear music..."

They all stood still and sharpened their hearing. 

"Someone's playing The Beatles," Terry said. 

"Eric!" John hissed. He proceeded to limp twice as fast up the stairs. The music increased accordingly in volume as they got closer to its source. 

John threw the bedroom door open. He stood still in the entryway. 

Eric, Terry Jones, and Michael were still on the bed. They were all singing the words to "Blackbird." They were surrounded by stunned peasants who were sitting on the floor or leaning against any available surface. 

John frowned. Graham barely restrained him from saying "Well well well, wot's all this then?"

Terry peeked in too. "Shit, man," he said in a hushed voice, "they're fucking harmonizing."

Even John had enough courtesy to wait until the song was done. When it was, Eric appeared to suddenly notice him. 

"Oh, hello," Eric said coyly. 

"Good afternoon," John said. "While you were messing about with your bendy guitar—"

("Lute," Mike and TJ interrupted in perfect synchronization.)

"—Graham and I were looking for a certain someone who wandered off without our permission." John shoved Terry G into the room. 

"Hey," TG grumbled. 

"And he's got something, er, odd to tell you," Graham added. 

John frowned at the peasants. "Get out. All of you."

One by one the peasants got to their feet and trailed off, grumbling. John shut the door behind them. 

"Go on, tell them," he said to TG. 

"Oh, okay," Terry stammered. "Well, uh, I was, like, walking in the forest. Oh. And before that, I was, uh..."

"He found out someone who can send us back home, but we need a bloody dragon's egg in exchange," Graham blurted out. 

"Yeah, what he said," Terry G said. 

Terry Jones looked amazed. "Dragons! There's dragons?! That's so freakin' cool!"

"Can they kill us?" Eric said.

"Well, anything can kill you, if you look at it that way," Graham said. "You can die from drinking too much water."

"Graaaaaham!" Eric whined. 

"Yeah," Terry G said. "They got like, razor sharp talons, and they breathe fire."

"Like John when he's mad," Terry Jones added diffidently.

"Christ," Eric moaned. "This day couldn't possibly get any better."

Meanwhile, Michael had been backing John into a corner. 

"How's it going?" he said in nearly a whisper. One of his hands absently twirled a strand of his hair. The other yanked down on his undershirt a bit. 

"Oh, fine," John said. "I mean, not really fine, since we have to go on stage in a couple hours and after that we have to risk our lives getting a stupid dragon egg, but otherwise fine."

"How's your knee?" Mike said. 

"Better, I think."

"That's good. Still, I should take a look at it." Michael took John's arm and began dragging him out of the room. 

"Why are we leaving?" John protested. 

"Privacy," Mike said. 

This should have turned John on to Mike's intentions, but he wasn't really paying attention. "And shouldn't Gray look at it? He is a doctor, after all—"

"No, he doesn't know what he's getting on about. Besides, he's totally pissed, he'd probably try to amputate," Mike said. 

John rolled his eyes. Michael steered him into their room and shut the door. "Take your trousers off."

"I beg your pardon?"

"So I can see, silly." Mike rolled his eyes. 

Uncomfortable, John pulled his trousers down and sat on the bed. Michael went down on his knees in front of him. John edged away a bit. 

"I don't bite," Michael said. "Don't you trust me? I just want to see if it's alright."

"Fine, fine," John said. 

Michael unwrapped the remnants of his shirt from around John's knee. John closed his eyes. He didn't want to see the damage.

But as it turned out, there was no real damage. John seemed to be healing fine. 

"You can open your eyes," Michael said. 

John slowly opened one eye, then, seeing nothing was wrong, opened the other one.

"Oh, good," he exhaled. 

Michael smiled. "I know you, John. You pretend to be all stoic, but you're not really, are you?"

"I don't know," John murmured. Michael was still kneeling on the floor. 

"Everybody's somewhat vulnerable," Michael said. "We've all got weaknesses."

"I guess mine is being painfully injured."

"That's probably pretty common." Mike laughed. "...Come here, John, I've got a secret to tell you."

He leaned in, and so did John. Instead of whispering anything, he kissed John's cheek. 

"Oh," John said, quite quietly. 

Michael kissed him again, on the mouth. It felt much less awkward when it was just the two of them, alone. John's heart was racing a million miles an hour and the palms of his hands were dripping with sweat. Michael felt perfectly cool and composed. 

Michael rested his forehead against the taller man's shoulder, and brought his arms up to hold his hands. He wasn't still for long, though. He started peppering kisses down John's neck. John was still, and Mike could feel his breath echoing off his skin. Slow at first, then quicker and quicker. 

John didn't stop Michael when he got to his collar and started unbuttoning it. Michael's hands fumbled with the buttons. He was distracted by John's broad chest heaving with every breath he took. He half wanted to just collapse on top of John and cuddle him, but he knew John wouldn't take it any further if left to his own devices. 

Frustrated, Michael finally ripped the shirt off. Buttons popped and scattered about the room. 

John smirked at Michael. "Easy there, old boy."

"I'm going to smack you again," Michael said, panting a bit. 

"What for?"

"You can't call people 'old boy' in bed," Michael said. 

"What's more appropriate, then?"

"I dunno." Mike had never been one for dirty talk, or talking at all in bed really. All he needed to hear was "yes" and he was set to go. "Baby."

"I'm not calling you baby."

Michael was lavishing John's bare skin with wet kisses. "Why not?" he murmured, pouting up at John, big greeny-brown eyes catching the firelight. 

"I don't know. I can't," John said.

"Fine." Mike shifted and leaned against John. "Um, sweetie pie."

"Not calling you that, either."

"Well, you don't call people 'old boy' in bed. That's illegal."

They kissed for a minute. Michael absently placed his hands in John's lap and started fiddling with the edge of his boxer shorts. He looked into John's eyes and they were dark with concentration. 

"We shouldn't be doing this," John said. "We should be rehearsing."

"We practically are," Mike said. "We're carrying on from when Jonesy interrupted us."

Jonesy...the already messy state of Michael's hair, and the heady smell of sex that clung to his skin like smoke...time spent alone "exploring." John came to a sudden realization. 

He decided not to care. 

It was rather difficult, but quite liberating. 

He gently threaded the fingers of one hand through Michael's hair, twisting it and tugging it gently. Michael made a tiny sound that wasn't a moan or a squeak, but somewhere in between. 

Cute, John thought. It was still weird to be thinking of another guy as "cute," but it was a kind of weird he could get used to. 

His train of thought was interrupted by one small hand slipping down the front of his boxers. His breath caught in his throat and his eyes fell closed.

Michael watched his face carefully, adjusted his grip a bit. John was frowning a bit, but then again he was never not frowning. Michael teased his fingers around the tip of John's cock. 

"Do you trust me?" Michael whispered. 

"Yes," John said, voice slightly strained. He didn't want to trust Mike, but he did. It was impossible not to. Impossible not to get lost in those big dewy eyes. 

"I trust you." More kisses on John's chest. John was so hard now it was on the verge of pain. His legs were trembling a bit. He couldn't believe he was just sitting back and letting this happen. 

Maybe sitting back and letting things happen wasn't so bad after all. 

Stop it, he commanded himself, you're turning into Eric Idle. 

Unheeded by John, Michael had been creeping downwards. He placed kisses down his chest and tummy, and then a bit lower. John fell into sudden bliss at the feeling of Mike's lips around him. 

"Oh, God," he whispered, his voice clipped. 

Mike grinned inwardly. Outwardly, he continued pleasuring John. 

His hands drifted up and he began softly stroking his fingertips up and down John's sides. It made John's skin tingle with electricity and ripped his breath from his lungs. He'd never really thought a simple touch could feel so amazing, until now. 

Now Mike was humming deep in his throat and it was making vibrations flow into John. And now his lips were wrapped tightly around the other man's cock, taking it in as deep as he could manage. Michael clenched his thumb inside his fist to drown out his gag reflex and closed his eyes as he felt John bucking into his mouth. 

Oh god, John thought, oh god. I'm actually doing this. Me...and Michael...

He couldn't suppress a moan as Mike sucked at him. He was never really vocal during sex, but for some reason he couldn't stop himself now. 

He was nearing his peak and he felt like he was going to explode if it was drawn out any more. His hands tangled in Michael's messy hair, yanking it, and forcing himself deeper between Michael's lips. 

"Fuck," he gasped out. "Fuck, Mikey."

Mike closed his eyes and let himself be used. And it was wonderful. 

John moaned and tensed and suddenly he'd spilled his seed down Mike's throat, and he was seeing fireworks. He closed his eyes tightly and when he opened them again he could see Michael wiping ropes of come off his face and licking his fingers clean. He caught John's eyes while he did so. The vision made John want to start all over again. 

But he couldn't. There were rehearsals and costumes and scripts and—

Mike pushed him into a lying-down position and cuddled up to him. 

"I like it when you call me Mikey," he said. 

"I like it when you..." John panted. "When you do anything."

"Thank you, I think." Mike's lips met John's. John pulled Mike closer. He wanted nothing more than to lie here all day in the warmth and enjoy Michael's company. "I guess we should get back out there..."

"Before you do, I want you to know something," John said. "I don't mind if you mess around with other guys. I know I can't control you and I don't mind it. But I want you to promise me something."

"Anything, John."

"You can love anyone. But I'm the only one you're in love with."

Mike hugged John and grinned. "Definitely. And it's true."


	9. With A Little Help from My Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> banter and stuff, I don't want to spoil any of it so just read it I guess   
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Two hours until the show. Eric and Graham were in their room, having managed to procure more nasty wine. Eric was a pretty good drinking buddy. He listened well and liked making fun of things.

They were pretty quiet, neither of them really being in a talkative mood. They'd never been the absolute best of friends, but they were close enough and could get along just fine under the right circumstances. 

Eric was lying on the bed, lute in hands. Graham was staring into the fire, looking strange. 

Eric noticed the strange look. He started playing some Donovan on the lute. "Penny for yer thoughts, Graham," he drawled. 

Graham shrugged. Smoke puffed up from his pipe. 

"Really, Graham. Something wrong?"

"Uh..." Graham began. "I'm missing David."

Eric nodded sympathetically. 

"I need to see him," Graham said. "He's my other half. The Dorian Gray to my Basil Hallward. I hope to whatever God there is that he's doing okay."

"I'm sure he is." Eric settled on the floor beside Graham. He took the pipe out of the taller man's mouth and placed it in his own. "And I always saw you as more of a Lord Henry, by the way."

"I hope he remembered to feed the cat. And call his aunt, she's sick in hospital. And clean the lint trap in the dryer out..."

"He's an adult, Gray, he can make it on his own," Eric said. He grabbed Graham's arm to try and reassure him. Graham looked askance at him, provoking Eric to add an "I'm absolutely sure he's alright."

Graham took a drink of wine out of the bottle. "I know. I suppose you're missing Lyn."

"I am." Eric sighed. "I guess, when we perform tonight, we're really performing for them. Lyn, and David, and the other guys' wives. And Carol, and Neil, and...hell, and even David Frost. Maybe we could pretend they're in the audience, listening raptly to us."

"I will." Graham smiled, a bit wistfully.

They stared into the fire some more, silently lost in thought. 

Meanwhile, the Terries were contributing their time to an actual cause by trying to formulate a plan to steal a dragon egg. That was, if Jonesy could ever get over the fact that there were dragons. 

"How do we sneak past a freakin' dragon?" Terry G asked for the fifth time in as many minutes.

"I don't know," Jonesy said. "But it's so cool! I wonder how big they are. I want to study one up close, see its anatomy..."

"I'll draw a diagram," Terry Gilliam decided, rolling his eyes. He moved to a clear space on the wall and started sketching with his burnt stick. They shared a cigarette. A peasant came by and delivered them some exceedingly nasty roast beef. 

After a while, they'd hatched a plan. They called it Operation Odysseus, mostly because it sounded cool. 

...One hour and twenty minutes to showtime. John finally got out of bed and gathered everyone together in the Terries' room to practice more. Terry Gilliam was sent out as an errand boy. He returned with a replica of a parrot—I mean a cow, two small fishes and one big one, some fresh fruit, a wig and a dress, and a fork. 

The extra practice was fairly abysmal. 

Graham refused to practice any more. He believed that he didn't need any more practice. Rather infuriatingly, he was correct. John was trying to direct everyone, which was failing miserably. Michael wouldn't stop hitting on John. (And Terry Jones, and Eric, and Graham. Not Terry Gilliam—Mike has some standards, for Christ's sake.) Terry Gilliam, once he'd gotten back with the correct number of raspberries, sat in the corner and sulked. Eric was constantly strumming the lute, which got annoying after a very short while. And Terry Jones would not shut up about dragons. 

"Jones, will you shut up about the dragons?!" John said, interrupting their rehearsal of the cheese shop sketch. "We're trying to practice here. Do something useful."

"Like what?" Jonesy pouted. "All I'm doing in this scene is dancing like an oaf."

"Yes, you don't really need practice for that," Graham said. 

"Oh shut up," Terry Jones said crossly. 

Eric angrily played some annoying music on the lute in response. 

"Guys, can we get on with it?" Michael said.

"Fine, fine," John said. "All I'm saying is, some people don't have enough dedication to their work..."

"How'm I supposed to be dedicated to this?!" Terry Jones shouted. 

"Comedy is serious business!" John said stridently. 

"Come on," Michael groaned. "Let's just put this stupid stuff aside. John, where were we?"

"Cheddar," John said. 

"Alright. Let's keep going..."

Terry G was drawing dragons flying all over the wall with his burnt stick. He went over the details of the plan in his head. 

...Forty minutes to showtime. 

John was internally panicking, but they were too busy to panic. His movements became ever more manic as he obsessed over the show. 

He had a good reason for it, though. If they were crap, they wouldn't get bad reviews. They'd get disemboweled. 

Everyone else, especially Michael, seemed so calm. John was envious. He tried to hide his stress, but he snapped if anyone messed their lines up in the slightest, or said something he thought was annoying, or looked at him funny. A vein in his forehead was throbbing. 

Eric and TJ were running over Nudge Nudge one last time. 

"...They could be, they could be taken on holiday," Eric was saying. He seemed about ready to burst into giggles, which was very in character. He was quite genuinely having fun. "Candid, you know, CANDID photography?"

"No, no, we don't have a camera," Terry J said. He was more bored than anything. He was stuck inside while there were actual dragons out there, waiting to be examined. Who wouldn't be bored?

John span around from where he and Michael were practicing the cheese shop sketch. "Wrong!" he snapped. "Wrong, wrong, WRONG!" he continued as he sauntered over, hands behind his back. 

"What's wrong?" Eric said. 

"Jones," John said with contempt. "It's 'no, no I'm afraid we don't have a camera.' You omitted two words. Two whole words!"

"I think you're massively overreacting," Terry said with a frown. 

"I'm not!" John nearly shrieked. "It's vitally important we do everything exactly right! No mistakes!"

"You're a mistake," Terry Jones said. 

"Guys, do we have to argue?" Eric interrupted. 

"Yes, we do!" Terry J said. 

"Shut up, both of you!" John said. "You Welsh git! You'll ruin everything!"

As per usual when TJ was mad, things became airborne. A bowl flew across the room in John's direction, then a carrot, then Terry's shoe. Terry J was taking his other shoe off to throw when he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

He turned around. It was Mike. 

"Please don't argue, Terry," Michael said with a cute little pout. "Let's try our hardest to get along. I know we're all stressed, but if we pull together into a team we can blow these guys away! I know we've got it in us."

"Not the only thing he's got in him," Eric said, elbowing John. "Eh? Eh?"

John rolled his eyes and crossed his arms in an exaggerated pantomime of annoyance. He was too focused on Michael to really be angry. "There is such a thing as being too in-character, you know," he said severely. 

They went back to rehearsing, after which Terry Jones went out of the room and punched a wall and Eric and Graham kept drinking. 

...Ten minutes to showtime.

They were finally setting things up on the stage. "John, Mike, get in your places!" Terry Jones called from the audience. Rich lords and ladies were already filing in to the room, looking not too excited. "Mike, move a bit stage left, that's a dear...Where's the cow?...How can you lose an entire fake cow? Did it grow legs and walk away?" 

Terry Gilliam, the object of the shorter Terry's derisions, frowned down at his shoes and shuffled around a bit, fidgeting with his greasy hair. He basically looked like a subordinate getting chewed out by their boss anywhere (or any time) around the world.

"It already had legs," the animator mumbled. 

Terry Jones sighed. He was taking the opportunity to act a diva and he loved it. "Well, we need to find it! The show can't go on without it! Get out."

Terry Gilliam grumbled and walked off. Terry Jones hopped onto the wooden stage and walked over to John. He whipped out makeup and a little brush and started covering John's black eye with it. John was frowning and chewing on his lower lip. He knew this evil was a necessary one, but he still wanted to kick Terry. 

"All done, there's a good boy," Terry Jones said. He packed the makeup back away wherever he'd took it from. "Now...Graham," he called into the wings, "you're going to need to take that pipe out of your mouth. You don't have it in any of these sketches."

"Fuck you, don't tell me what to do," Graham puffed. 

Terry rolled his eyes and walked over to the stage left wings, where Graham and Eric were lurking with a bottle of wine. He grabbed the pipe and the bottle of wine. "You've got to listen to me and take this seriously!"

"Better to be silly," Graham said. "The world is serious enough as it is."

"I don't care how many epigrams you shoot my way, you're not getting these back until after the show. You're drunk enough as it is."

"You'we dwunk enough as it iiiis," Eric mocked him drunkenly. 

Terry glowered. He was beginning to get quite good at it with all this practice. 

He felt a small hand on his shoulder and looked around. It was Mike. Again. 

"You two should listen to him, you know." Michael said to Eric and Graham. "He's right."

"Thank you," Terry said. "Oh, Eric, you've got something right there..." Terry licked his thumb and rubbed some dirt off Eric's face with it. 

Eric made efforts to escape and screwed his face up. "Terryyyy! Not in front of everyone! You're embarrassing me!"

"Now you two nincompoops get up and pull the curtains shut and start bringing out some of the props," Terry ordered. Eric and Graham mumbled a bit, but with one look from Michael they rose to their feet and did the chores, albeit very reluctantly. 

"What about me?" Michael said, smiling at Terry. 

"Well, what about you?" Terry said. 

"What are you going to correct me on?"

"Nothing, Mike," Terry said. "You're already perfect."

Michael blushed and ran his hands through his dark hair unconsciously. "Aw, Terry..."

"But you do have your jacket buttons done up wrong. Here, let me do it for you."

Michael sighed and watched Terry unbutton his sport jacket and do it back up correctly. They stared awkwardly into each other's eyes. 

"You're acting like their mum, Tel," Michael said. "Telling them what to do. And caring about them. It's weird."

"Well, you're like their dad," Terry replied. "You tell them what to do, except they actually listen to you."

"What does that make us?" Michael said softly, his gaze straying down and away from Terry, making his long eyelashes press to his cheeks. 

"I don't know," Terry said. Somehow he instantly realized that this was not what Michael had wanted him to say. He felt instant regret, anxiety and fear melding together in his stomach. As Michael turned away he murmured, "I mean, we can be whatever you want."

Michael smiled at him. He could have quite the captivating smile. He pulled Terry back into the wings and pushed him against the wall. 

"Mike," Terry said urgently. "Mike, John's right there!"

"He doesn't mind." Michael kissed Terry's cheek and cuddled up to him. 

"Are you sure?" Terry said. 

Michael nodded. "He told me himself."

Terry sighed. "Okay..."

Michael had him pinned to the wall and was kissing him all over. Terry was flustered. For some reason the fact that he was powerless to stop any of this was turning him on even more. Mike kissed him deeply, winding his fingers through his curly hair. When he broke away, Terry murmured "Oh, Mikey..."

Mike looked up. "You're not allowed to call me that."

"Why?"

"Only John can."

Terry bit his lip and felt a sudden wave of rage against John. There would always be something he and Michael couldn't have because of that bastard getting in the way. 

Maybe it was stupid to be jealous—he already had everything he wanted. He had Michael back as a friend, and as something more. 

But he couldn't stand the thought of Michael making love to John. There was something awful about that. He wanted Mike all to himself. 

"I don't know if this is a good idea," Terry said, backing away a bit. 

"What d'you mean?"

Terry shrugged, because he really didn't know what he meant himself. 

Michael dragged Terry back over and started kissing him and grinding up on him. Once again, the nonconsensual-ness of it all made him weak in the knees, butterflies trying to escape from his stomach. 

"Mike, no, don't," he said. 

"Why?" Michael looked up from where he was placing kisses down Terry's neck. His eyes were dark with lust and it made Terry nervous. 

"I can't do this. I can't be with you if John is too."

"Why? You know Graham and David fool around on each other and neither of them care—"

"Yes, but I care! That's the difference between me and Graham. He doesn't care about anything. I care too much."

Michael shook his head. "I don't understand you...Do you want this or not?"

"I don't know, Mike."

Michael pressed his lips to Terry's. "Sh," he murmured against Terry. 

Terry made small whiny noises that were consequently ignored. 

They heard footsteps coming from the stage. Terry tried to push Michael away, but he was stuck on. 

It was Graham. He stuck his head around the edge of the wing and wiggled his eyebrows when he saw what Terry and Mike were up to. 

"Mike!" Terry whispered. "Mike, stop! Graham's here."

Michael didn't stop. 

Graham came over and helped pry Michael away. He looked grumpy and tried to escape. Graham managed to get him into a chokehold.

"Hello," said Graham.

"Um...hi?"

"Sorry to, er, disturb you two..." More dirty facial expressions. "But Terry Gilliam has come back with the cow, only he can't quite figure out where to stick the head on."

"Idiots," Terry J said tersely, "I'm surrounded by idiots," and he ran off. 

Graham loosened his grip on Michael. "You shouldn't treat him like that."

"He likes it," was Michael's response. 

"If he liked it, I don't think he'd be telling you to stop."

"He's just funny like that."

Graham took Mike by his shoulders. "Look, I don't want you to do that any more. You have to pay attention to what he says or he'll just feel like his opinions don't matter."

Michael made assorted whiny noises. 

"It's true. If you're going to go fuck him you've got to treat him right too."

"We didn't fuck," Michael said automatically. 

"Yes you did."

"No we..." Michael gave up. "How can you tell?"

"I just can," Graham said. "Now promise me you won't act like a complete creep around Terry."

"I promise," Michael sighed. 

Graham stood back and shook his head. "This is so unlike you...why am I not surprised?"

Michael shrugged and did a fairly good job of looking contrite. 

"What are you hiding, Palin?"

"Nothing," Michael said, mouth curving down in a little moue of discontent. 

Graham was about to say something when he was interrupted by a call from onstage.

"Places, everyone! Show starts in one minute!" Eric yelled. 

"Oh," Graham said, rather disappointed. 

Michael made his way onstage. Graham went to sit backstage with Eric, whom he discovered had snatched the bottle of shitty wine back from TJ. 

Michael stared across the stage at John, who was stage left, preparing to make his entrance. 

He was surprised by what happened next. 

"Good luck," he saw John silently mouth to him. 

He nodded and gave John a tense smile. "You too," he whispered. 

They'd be needing it. 

...Ten minutes after the show. 

The door to the Terries' bedroom was flung open, letting a wave of raucous laughter in. The Terries both practically flew in, followed by a grinning Eric Idle. 

"We did it," Terry Gilliam breathed in wonder as he flung himself onto the bed. "I can't believe it."

"The almighty Python lives to fight another day!" Eric crowed. It was weird to see him this ecstatic about anything, really, but then again he had just escaped a nearly-probable violent death. 

"I'm going to see a dragon!" Terry Jones squeed.

Eric rolled his eyes. "You and the bloody dragons..."

"What? They're cool."

Mike stuck his head in the doorway. "Plus they're our ticket to making it out of this place alive."

"Touché," Eric said. 

Mike came into the room, and John and Graham followed him. 

"We should celebrate," Michael said. 

"I concur," Graham said. "Hopefully with plenty of alcohol."

"You're drunk enough already, you twit," John said. "We can't have you being hungover when we head off to fight a bleedin' dragon."

("Don't talk about dragons like that!" Terry J said.)

"I don't get hangovers," Graham said. 

"How?"

"Hair of the dog, I suppose."

"Graham, you're not fooling anyone. You don't just take one hair of the dog, you skin the whole thing," John said. 

Graham rolled his eyes. "Well well well, who died and made you king of alcohol?"

"Yeah, Graham's already the king of alcohol," Eric said. 

"Quit trying to usurp my throne, you twat!" Graham said. 

John rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to stoop to your level...and I suppose a drink would be nice." Even John wanted to celebrate. 

"Well, it's agreed then, where shall we go?" Michael said. 

"Did they have pubs in the 1400's?" Eric said. 

"They're called taverns, you pillock," Terry Jones said. 

"English major here," Eric said. 

"Well, let's go to one of those," Michael said. "Anyone know where they are?"

"There's one about one mile toward the Sinister Mountains, beside the foundry," Terry G chirped up.

Everybody gave him kind of a weird look. 

"How do you know that, exactly?" John said. 

Terry shrugged. "Uh, I talk to people."

"Sounds legit," Graham said. 

"Plus I know where we can get clothes," Terry G added. Everyone perked up. The prospect of clothing that wasn't all sweaty and filthy and, in Eric's and Graham's cases, covered in blood, was rather exciting. 

One of the peasants in charge of the laundry looked up from where he was rubbing clothes together on a rock at the sound of an approaching group of people.

"Ugh, these jesters again," he hissed to his companion. 

She looked up and saw them too. "Shit. Pretend thou seest them not."

They both pretended to be busy. 

"Hey, you again," Terry G said. 

One of the peasants looked up. "How may we be of service, good sir?"

"Uh, I need some more of your clothes," said TG. 

"Hey," the woman said to the man. "Verily, doth this not count as stealing?"

"Shut up! Doth thou want to get us both sacked?" the man hissed. "Most certainly, good sirs!" he said to the roving group of Pythons. 

They all changed into the peasant clothes, which were ragged but much cleaner than the previous ones. 

Eric looked uncomfortable. "Man, these burlap trousers really chafe."

"This is ridiculous," said John. His trousers had been made to fit someone much shorter, and barely went past his knees. 

"Oh, quit complaining," Michael said. "You look good."

"No I don't."

"Don't you dare contradict me." Michael leaned up to kiss John's cheek. John looked intensely uncomfortable. 

"Aw, he's blushing," Eric murmured to Graham. "That's adorable."

"I ship it," Graham whispered back. 

"Thank you," Mike said cheerfully to the peasants. He followed the others off toward the Sinister Mountains. No one really minded walking a mile for a drink, not even John. 

Just then, a fanciful figure clad in white came dashing down from the castle. It leapt at Eric and revealed itself to be Eidola, quite upset. 

"Eric, my darling, you said we were going to get married tomorrow! Why won't you help me plan the wedding?" she wailed. 

"I will when I get back, light of my life," Eric said, giving her a big sloppy kiss. 

"Promise?" Eidola said. 

"I do, darling," Eric cooed. 

"Thank you, sweetie pie."

"No, thank you, honeybun."

"No, thank you, babydoll."

This continued for five minutes before Eidola left. Eric turned back to the group, his face a mask of horror. 

"Help," he whispered. 

Graham laughed at Eric's misery. "You fool, you bloody fool..."

"It'll turn out alright, I'm sure," Michael said. 

They kept heading on. 

It was dark by the time they got to the tavern. It was built beside another forest. There was a stable to park your horses beside the tavern, which had a sign on the front reading THE DRAGON'S MOUTH. Terry J and Michael immediately fell into a hushed discussion about its historical value. 

"Let's go in," John said. 

"I concur," Graham said. 

John and Graham went in, jostling each other a bit, and the rest followed. 

Inside, the tavern was dark, lit by a few candles placed about and a fire in a fireplace, over which some kind of large boar-like animal was being spit-roasted. The walls were sloping and made out of crumbling clay bricks and the roof was thatched. Various scowling cloaked people lurked about. There was a quiet, despicable din of people plotting each other's demises. 

Graham led the way through the foul-smelling crowd to the bar. They all sat down in front of it. Michael did a head count. Terry Jones was on his left. To his right was John, then Graham, then Eric, then Terry G. All present and accounted for. 

The bartended was a grizzled man missing most of his teeth and wearing clothes stained with something that looked suspiciously like blood. He was portly with looming eyebrows, and about five foot eight, which was tall by medieval standards. He glowered over at them. His glower was quite good, almost as good as John Cleese's. 

Before he took the Pythons' orders, he turned to one of the many cloaked figures. A bird was perched on the cloaked figure's shoulder. 

"What d'you want?" the bartender growled. 

"Gin and slimline tonic with ice but no lemon in," said a deep female voice. Graham nearly jumped a foot out of his chair. 

They turned to look at the mysterious hooded figure. It removed its hood and revealed itself to be Aislin the enchantress. 

"Hello," she said. Smoke curled up from the pipe clenched between her lips. 

"Aislin!" Terry Gilliam stammered. "Uh, what are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" she retorted. 

"Celebrating," Michael said. 

"Oh," Aislin said. Cawdor the magpie hopped off of her shoulder and began eating the peanuts off the bar. "Drinks on me, then."

Graham hugged her. "Where have you been all my life?" She laughed and shoved him off. 

They all got drinks and then went to sit around a table. It was quieter near the back. 

"So tell me, how did it go?" she said. 

"Very good," Mike said. "I think we pulled together very well. We made them laugh."

"One guy choked on a chicken bone and died," Eric reminded him. 

"Hey, we're so funny that people literally die because of how funny we are. That's good," Michael said. 

Eric rolled his eyes. 

"Anyways, we decided that we'll start heading for the Sinister Mountains tomorrow, after we all get a good night's sleep."

"But I wanna go now!" Terry Jones said. 

"No buts! You can't go off fighting dragons without a good night's sleep."

Terry J mumbled and grumbled. 

"I think the Terries have some sort of plan," Eric said. 

"What? You had a plan and you didn't invite me?" Graham said. 

"I did!" Terry Jones said. "Remember, I told you backstage, 'Would you like to hear the plan...'"

"Well, I couldn't pay attention on account of how THE SHOW HAD ALREADY STARTED!" Graham said. "Besides, you kept prodding me in the bleedin' small of the back! I can't stand when people prod me!"

The magpie hopped over and pecked at his sleeve. "Like this?"

"Stop that!" 

Cawdor pecked Graham rapidly. He tried to hit it. He accidentally hit the table and hurt his hand. The magpie flew up into the rafters and cackled at him. 

Graham cursed. "Hate that bloody bird."

"Is anyone going to tell me the plan?" Aislin said. 

"We will," Terry Jones said, referring to himself and the other Terry. "Okay. First, we find the dragon's cave. Then we'll watch it from afar, scope out its tactics. When it leaves to ravage the village we sneak in and steal the egg and run away, really really fast."

"Okay..." Aislin said. "I kind of wanted you to, you know, stop the village from being ravaged entirely."

"Oh, one more time can't make that much of a difference," TJ said. 

"It can, and it does," Aislin said. "I'm not letting you do it like that."

"Well, there goes our plan," Terry Jones said to the other Terry. 

"We're going to have to sneak in while it's still there," Terry G said. "How are we gonna do that?"

"We can soothe it to sleep with the power of MUSIC!" Eric said. 

"That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard, you incompetent buffoon," John hissed. 

"Oh, well, it was only a suggestion. No need to get all defensive."

"What are we doing, then?" Graham inquired. 

"Can't believe you were going to let it ravage the village," Aislin said. "It eats the people's animals, and then steals all their gold, and then it eats the people too, likely enough."

"Eats their bleedin' animals," Terry Jones muttered. His eyes suddenly lit up. "Guys, I have an idea..."


	10. I Want to Tell You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has a lot of dialogue and also it is fairly long

They all went back to Aislin's place to talk, since it was closer. True to her word, she did pay the bill, although when she first saw it she did chastise Graham severely, as he'd consumed a ridiculous amount of alcohol. 

It wasn't too far of a walk but it had gotten cold out. Eric wrapped his arms tightly around himself and let his mind get lost in the sky. 

The stars seemed so much brighter here. Probably the lack of light pollution, Eric thought. He stumbled over a tree root and looked down in surprise but regained his balance. 

Graham was beside him. The sudden movement caught his eye and he looked over. It was too dark to see his face, but Eric could imagine it. Graham would have sarcastic heavy-lidded eyes and that little smirk that was more eloquent than any words could be. Eric looked over and shrugged. He was still a bit flustered from tripping. 

Graham removed the pipe from his mouth and stared up into the sky. They were in the forest right now, so the treetops were silhouetted over the milky night sky like lace. A bat flew past in the sky, a shadow against a background of darker shadows. 

"Beautiful, innit," Graham said. 

"Yes," Eric said. 

They were quiet. What little of Graham that Eric could see in the darkness looked like a character from some old Gothic horror story, even though he was wearing peasant clothes and was three-quarters passing-out drunk. Distinguished and disdainful. Eric watched the constellations dancing across Graham's glassy eyes. Then he turned his attention back to the sky. 

He'd always been weirdly drawn to beautiful things. Beautiful things and scenery and people just seemed to be begging to have descriptions written down of them, and Eric needed to write them. 

Everything was dark, they were heading into a mysterious forest, and he had no idea if he'd ever make it back home, but Eric felt strangely at peace. He allowed himself a small, optimistic smile. 

If all went well, he'd be back home by tomorrow. He'd see Lyn. He'd be able to take a hot shower and eat proper food and sleep for as long as he wanted, and then he'd be able to write anything he wanted with the other Pythons, without having the Damocles' sword of Lord Iain's threats hanging over his head. 

But his feelings were mixed, and he didn't know why.

He was too distracted to notice the sparks of magic jumping from his fingertips, but the others weren't. Terry Jones made pleased noises at it. 

Soon they arrived. Terry J and Michael were the only ones who hadn't seen Aislin's hideout beneath the trees. They made sounds of surprise as the section of bark slid aside from the tree to reveal the doorway. 

They all headed downstairs. They settled themselves in the den. It was pleasantly warm, and smelled like smoke, paper, and something vaguely herbal. The light flickered dimly, but in the company of others the seemingly sapient shadows cast upon the walls by various magical artifacts seemed neutral, if not benevolent. 

There was a couch that had enough room for John, Graham, and Aislin to sit upon. Eric found a three-legged wooden stool in the corner and pulled it over to be with the group. Mike sat on the floor with his back pressed to the foot of the couch, between John and Graham. The two Terries sat on the hearthstone. 

They'd wanted to try and fix up their agenda for tomorrow, but it was late and they were all in varying degrees of intoxication. They ended up all talking about whatever came to mind. Graham and Aislin seemed to get along instantly, maybe from just being so similar; she headed to the kitchen to prepare tea and he followed her there so they could continue their conversation about Jungian archetypes in dreams. The Terries talked about dragons—well, it was more like TJ ranting on drunkenly about their scales and wingspan and the magical qualities their venomous fangs surely possessed, while TG picked at his fingernails. Michael cuddled up to John and occasionally leaned up to whisper in his ear. Eric sat by himself and lusted for his guitar. The situation was begging for some Beatles to be played over it.

Michael and John were probably the least steeped in beer out of the seven. What they were discussing went roughly as follows:

"John?" Michael murmured. He crawled up onto the couch, taking the space that had been vacated by Aislin and Graham, and rested his chin on John's shoulder. 

John glanced up from the fire. The moodiness in his gaze faded a bit upon the sight of his lover. "What is it, Mikey?"

Michael smiled at this. "I wanted to tell you something."

"What would that be?"

"I, er...I wanted to apologize for how I've been conducting myself lately. I've been under a lot of stress, and I hope you understand when I say that I'm truly sorry for behaving so dreadfully."

John was slightly taken aback. "Well, that's alright, Michael. We're all under stress. I do forgive you, although there isn't much you need to be forgiven for."

"Thank you, John. I love you very much."

John's eyes turned down and he looked nervous, oddly in contrast to his usual brash façade. His thin lips curved up in a genuine smile, a rare one that hadn't been borne of sarcasm or schadenfreude, and when he looked back up you could see his response in his expression before he even put it into words. 

"I love you too, Michael," he whispered. 

Of course their lips met, and Michael shivered at the feeling of John's strong hands clutching his shoulders and pulling him in. It was a perfect moment, until Graham hissed "Get a room."

Michael pouted. Graham gave him a pat on the head and smiled condescendingly as he took a sip of honeyed tea. Michael edged over on the couch as Graham sat down, then moved back onto the floor as Aislin sat down. 

He grew all of a sudden very drowsy. He leaned his head against John's knee, and felt a rush of pleasure both physical and mental as John began playing with his hair. John was so reticent that it was a triumph to get him to publicly express any affection at all. 

Michael was nearly asleep when Graham tapped him on the shoulder. 

Michael opened one eye and frowned. "What, Graham?"

"That was a very nice apology you made to John, but I think you ought to make one to Jonesy as well," Graham said. 

Michael sighed. 

"Come on, Michael, you practically raped him!"

"Sh, don't say that," Michael said reproachfully. 

"It's true. Come on, get up."

Michael looked over at Terry J. He was enthusiastically flapping his arms up and down like wings in order to demonstrate something to the other Terry, who had fallen asleep out of boredom. 

"I can't, look how happy he is. I'll do it tomorrow," Michael murmured. He felt incredibly guilty all of a sudden. He wanted to kill that feeling. He hated it. 

"Okay...I'll be watching you," Graham said. 

"Why do you even care?" Michael said. 

"I know you think I don't like him. And it's true that I'm not his best friend, but I can't let that slide. I can't stand there and do nothing while you treat him like that, and take advantage of him. If I did I wouldn't be able to look at myself in the mirror at night."

"You're making me sound like a villain." Michael stared into the fire. 

"You're acting like one."

Mike sighed. "Fine, I'll do it. I'll get him alone somehow and I'll do it. Are you happy now?"

"Better." Graham smiled wryly. 

Michael sighed in exasperation and attempted to go to sleep. Graham went back to his conversation with Aislin. 

Eric was bored. This always happened. He always ended up alone. He didn't know what it was, but it seemed like something about his personality made him awfully overlook-able. 

He got up and wandered around. No one really noticed. 

He was starting to feel how buzzed he was in the heat of the house. He crossed the den without anyone noticing and stuck his head into the kitchen. 

It was a small room, brightly lit with something Eric found marvelous— a hundred-watt incandescent lightbulb. The walls were whitewashed and adorned by pictures of odd creatures set in lacy pink or white frames. The little room was lined with cupboards and he was curious about their contents. 

He opened one. The first drawer contained some bottles labelled Eye of Newt, Dragon's Breath, and Topical Anti-fungal Cream. He supposed that it was the medicine cabinet. 

He shut this cupboard and moved to another one. This one contained all manner of strange herbs and dried flowers. 

The next one after that had canned baked beans. 

It was obvious that there was really nothing valuable in the kitchen. Eric moved to the next room. 

This was a dark room with a stone pit in the centre to light fires in. Above the fire pit hung a great black rusty cauldron, half full of some mysterious green slime. Eric noticed that the sparks spitting from his fingertips were growing stronger. 

The room was lined with bookshelves full of many an ancient and forgotten tome. Some of them had jewels set in, and some were written in strange runes, and some were bound in leather that looked mysteriously like human skin...

Eric was always drawn to books, and today was no different. He slowly sidled over and scanned the shelves for anything that caught his eye. It didn't take long before his slim fingers outstretched to pry a book from the clutches of its tightly packed brothers. 

It was a small hardcover book bound in red cloth. He read the words on the spine. The gilt was mostly worn off, but if he angled the spine properly he could read the title. A Student's Guide to Magic. 

He figured that he was probably a student, since he knew nothing about magic. He opened the cover. 

"Introduction" 

"Since the beginning of human civilization, people have longed for something better than mortal life. They asked the gods for richer lives, more outstanding lives, longer lives. 

"None of these methods worked, so humans either gave up or turned to darker paths, and it became quite clear that the only way to achieve these goals was through magic. 

"The aim of this guide is to introduce the student to different spells, runes, and subtypes of magic. One should not expect to become immortal or to master the elements using techniques in this guide. It exists purely to give a brief educational overview on the topic. 

"The editors at Empyreal Publications wish you all the best on your journey." 

Eric was rather enthused about this already. He sat down in the corner and kept reading by candlelight. He turned the page. 

Chapter One: Simple Runes...

In the den, the atmosphere was quiet and warm, but cloistered. Aislin and Graham had already passed into that stage of friendship where you can be perfectly quiet and still comfortable in each other's presence. Of course, it had been quickened by their being rather pissed. 

Terry Jones had finally shut up about the dragons. He was sleepily leaned against the snoring Terry Gilliam's shoulder. 

John's eyes were closed, but his fingers still trawled through Mike's messy hair. 

Terry J's eyes fell closed. His weight slowly shifted onto TG. Graham nudged Aislin and John and pointed at the Terries. Everyone watched as TJ leaned onto TG until they finally both toppled off the hearth and landed on the oak floorboards. 

"Waaagh!" Terry G yelled. Terry J made some frightened noises that sounded like a small child who is not quite sure if they've just felt a spider crawl across their face. Everyone laughed. 

Terry G sat up. His hair was partly pasted to his face with drool. He smacked his lips dryly and looked down at Terry J, whose head was in his lap. 

"I wanna go back to the castle," Terry Jones moaned. "I wanna sleep."

"Ugh," Terry Gilliam said. "You woke me up, you dick...Graham, stop making that face at me."

"What face?" Graham said primly, making the face. 

"You know! The face! The face face!" Terry G said, flapping his hands around. 

"I don't see any face," John said, also making the face. 

"Aughh!" Terry G moaned. He leaned forward and buried his face in Terry J's shirt, making the shorter man twitch in surprise. "You Cambridge guys are all in cahoots!"

"Guys, lay off him a bit," Michael said. 

"Who put you in charge?" Graham said.

"I'm not, I just think it's a bit rude."

"You shut up, you...you taintsucking anklebiter," Graham said. 

Michael rolled his eyes. 

"You're such a pushover, Michael, it's appalling," Graham said. "Really, you don't have any backbone."

"I just know how to pick my battles," Michael snapped. 

"Ohh, snap!" Terry G said. "Want some ice for that burn?"

"You're not supposed to put ice on burns, it can damage the epidermis," Graham said. "You're supposed to use cool water or hydrocortisone cream, I think."

"Well, 'Want some cool water or hydro...hydro-whatever-ya-said cream for that burn' doesn't exactly have a ring to it," TG said. 

"The only important thing here is that Michael's a generic pushover," Graham said. "I'm going to go make tea." He got up and stumbled to the kitchen. Aislin followed to help him not die while drunk cooking. 

Michael rolled his eyes. John brushed the shell of Michael's ear with his fingertip and leaned in to whisper "It's alright."

Terry G's quiet voice rang out in the slightly awkward silence. "What do you guys miss the most about back home?"

"Wow, way to bring the morale up," TJ said. 

"I'm just curious," Terry G said. "Besides, it's motivating."

"You know what I miss?" Michael said. 

"What?" TG said. 

"Well, Helen obviously," he said. "But not counting her, I miss food."

Terry Jones sighed. "Yeah...I don't exactly enjoy eating unidentifiable bits of gristle."

"I think when I get home I'm going to eat an entire lasagna and watch the news and then sleep for a week," Mike said. 

"So basically no different than your usual routine," Terry Jones added. 

Michael rolled his eyes. "Yeah."

"I miss Alison," Terry J said. "And being able to take a hot shower."

"Me too," said Michael. "I can't stand being this dirty..."

"But otherwise I'm pretty much fine," Terry continued. "I like being here. I think it's interesting."

"Interesting? We damn near got drawn and quartered," John said. 

"What do you miss?" Michael said. 

"Not being in constant danger of losing my life," John said. 

"What about Connie?" Terry Jones said. 

"Well, yes, that goes without saying," John said. A perturbed look crossed his face. 

"What's the matter?" Michael whispered. 

"Well...I wasn't sure if I was going to tell you this, but...Connie's pregnant."

Everyone kind of stared. 

"Is it...is it yours?" Terry Gilliam asked. 

"YES, it's mine! What kind of a bloody stupid—"

"Congratulations, John!" Mike hugged him. "You're going to be a wonderful father."

"Do you think I would?" John said. 

"Yes," Michael said. 

"I don't know, I'm worried..."

"I can't believe you kept that a secret for so long," Terry J said. 

John shrugged. 

"Don't fret, John, I know you'll be the best dad that kid could possibly have," Michael said. 

John was quiet. 

The quiet was disturbed by Graham coming in with tea. He and Aislin both looked rather fed up, Graham because Aislin kept helping him, Aislin because Graham kept trying to burn the house down. 

"What's going on?" Graham said upon seeing the commotion. 

"Connie's pregnant!" Mike said. 

"Who?"

"John's wife, you dick!" Terry J said. 

"Is it his?"

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" John said. "Of course it is."

"Congratulations, old boy," Graham said. Upon hearing no response, he looked down at John. Even he could see that he was upset. "Is something wrong?"

"He's afraid he's not going to be a good father," Mike said quietly. 

"He doesn't need to know all that," John said. 

Graham's eyebrows pulled down into a frown. He set his second cup of tea down on the wooden coffee table and flung himself onto the couch. 

"Look at it this way," he said. "It's normal that you're worried. In fact, I think it means that you're cut out well to have a kid. A bad father wouldn't be fazed at all."

"What if I can't take care of it?...What if I don't love it, Gray? What if I can't manage to love my own flesh and blood?"

"What makes you think that could happen?"

It could have been the light, but it looked like there were tears in John's eyes. "I don't know. It's hard to love people. It's even harder when you're constantly worrying about what could happen if you fall out of love with them."

Michael turned around and stared at John, eyes wide. This was definitely very strange. 

"Let me tell you something." Graham pulled out his pipe. "Have you ever heard of post-partum depression?...Basically, it's when a mother gives birth and finds herself wracked with inconsolable guilt and sadness. No one really knows why this happens—"

"How does that help me? I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly capable of giving birth."

"I'm trying to say that learning to care for a child can be difficult. It's a huge change in your life. It can do things to your mind that you don't understand, and make you have alien feelings. But all of that doesn't matter, because when you fight through that—and you will, John, you're a stubborn bastard and you will—you'll find that you love that kid more than anyone." He lit the pipe, breathed thick smoke into the already muggy air, and reached for his tea. "More than any other soul on this goddamn planet, John. More than yourself. I can't explain that either. But I know without a doubt that that will happen. It's nothing you can control. It's pure instinct. 

"Maybe you won't love the kid at first, but I guarantee you that one day you'll look down at them and it'll hit you like a fucking ton of bricks, that this little being is yours and you're teaching it how to navigate the world. And you'll love that kid, you won't be able to help it. I know it without a doubt. It's human nature."

Graham sucked the stem of his pipe and stared dreamily into the fire. John stared into empty space, a strange expression having come over him. 

"Where'd you learn all that?" Michael asked Graham. 

"Oh, you'd be surprised what they teach the kids at St. Bart's."

"You're right." John looked up. 

"What?" Graham was a bit taken aback. 

"You're right, Gray. I need to forget about everything and stop worrying." He sighed. "I wish I knew how."

"Well, your three options are as follows: One, get hammered, which I could help you with. Two, give yourself over to a night of unforgettable and infinite pleasure, which I think Michael could help you with, or possibly Jonesy, he's been seeming a bit homosexual lately. Three, drive into a brick wall at speed, which none of us can help you with since there aren't any cars in this medieval hellhole."

"You know, you're awfully talkative tonight," Terry Jones said with a frown. "Trying to impress someone?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"A certain someone who is a sorceress. And a lady. And has green hair."

Aislin turned around and wiggled her eyebrows seductively at Graham. 

"No, I'm not!" Graham said. "What are you implying?"

"You're a closeted straight man, Graham! You aren't fooling anyone with your mincing about and your general 'hello, sailor' demeanor. You're as bent as a ruler."

"'Demeanor?' What are you, Eric Idle?" Graham said. 

"Don't rise to the bait, Gray," John mumbled. 

"You ruffled his feathers," Terry Gilliam slurred to the other Terry. "Keep going. This is fun."

"You two would make a cute couple," TJ said smarmily. "Two young alcoholics in love."

"I don't see what I've done to deserve being dragged into this," Aislin said. 

"I'm not in love with her," Graham spat. "She doesn't mean anything to me!"

"Oh, thanks," Aislin muttered. 

"Sorry."

"He's not angry enough," Terry G whispered. "Do something!"

"Like what?"

"I don't know! Anything!"

Terry Jones jumped up, grabbed Graham's pipe out of his mouth and ran away. This was the last straw. Graham roared and immediately began chasing TJ around the room. After a minute, he caught Terry and wrenched the pipe out of his hands. He gave Terry a little punch on the arm and returned to his seat, as did Terry.

Mike was losing his shit, almost crying from laughter. John reached down with a smirk and tickled him. Mike squealed and rolled into a ball like a threatened pillbug. "Stop! John, stoppit! I'm gonna pee!"

Everyone finally calmed down a bit. 

"You know, John never did finish telling us what he missed," Terry G said. 

"I think I covered it," John said. "Not a lot, really. What about you?"

"Being able to actually draw," Terry G said. "I can't stand this. There's so many ideas building up inside me with no way to get out. It's like I'm constipated, but with ideas instead of shit."

"So basically the exact same," Graham said. 

"Shut up, Graham. Anyways, you haven't told us what you missed."

"Running water," Graham said. "I can't believe how much I took it for granted...And David. I can't believe how much I took him for granted, either."

"Ohhh," Michael said sadly. 

"I miss him so much. It's like part of me is missing." For a moment, Graham looked utterly miserable, washed-up, and about 100 years old. It was a moment before he could force the normal bored and disdainful expression back to his face. "What about you, Aislin?"

"Not much, really," she said. "Sometimes my parents. But I was never really that close to them. I miss air conditioning. What about Eric? He hasn't gone yet."

They all looked around. 

"Where is Eric?" Graham asked. 

Eric was off in a land of strange beings on a chaotic swirling sea of emotions, also known as reading a book. But this book was different. 

He was already on Chapter Three, Practical Use of Simple Spells. He'd read about runes and leylines, which were both necessary for magic use. He had scribbled some runes down on a bit of paper. He'd already ascertained that they were on a leyline. Aislin's hideout had been built on the intersections of two leylines for her sorceress purposes. Leylines were useful for magic, he'd read, but not necessary once you got to a certain skill level. They just supplemented the mental power you already had. 

Eric closed the book. He stared at one rune that he'd written down, having found some blank paper and a stub of a pencil. He stared at it until he'd memorized every curve of its figure, and it was seared into his memory. 

Then he placed his fingertips down on the floor, upon which he was already sitting cross-legged. He closed his eyes and pictured the strange sigil. 

He'd tried transcendal meditation before, and some of it was similar to this. He focused on the rune and tried to drive all other thoughts from his mind. 

There was a tingling feeling spreading from his fingertips. It felt like he could sense everything the ground had borne, the trials of the forest, the ponderous battle of wilderness to take back what was lost. Pretty trippy. 

The sparks seemed to stream into the wooden floor. It trembled a bit and crackled. Slowly, a tiny sapling sprung up from the floorboard. 

Eric pulled his hands back to his sides and stared at the sapling. It was barely three inches tall. It already had a very small leaf. 

He was mentally exhausted, and had a bit of a headache, but it was amazing. He knew that he hadn't made life—that it had been lying there, dormant under their feet, waiting for the chance to spring up—but it was still cool to be the catalyst of it all. 

A creak sounded from the doorway. Eric's ears pricked up. 

It was Aislin. He could see light glinting off green hair. 

"Eric?" she said groggily. 

He was still. He had an instinctive feeling that he would get in shit for messing around with magic. 

She didn't see him. She moved on to the next room after a moment.

Eric quietly got to his feet, clutching the red book in one hand. He could hear the others yelling his name out. It looked like he wasn't as forgettable as he'd thought. 

He didn't know what to do. He stuffed the little book into his shirt and ran out into the kitchen. There was a door leading off of it. He pulled it open ever so slightly. It was a bathroom. A perfectly normal 20th century bathroom, with a tub and a toilet and sink, and a mirror. 

He took a piss, washed his hands (with running water! what luxury!) and splashed water all over his face. It felt amazing. He wondered if he had time to take a bath. 

He stared at his face in the mirror. Usually he avoided doing this, but now it was interesting. His overgrown hair was full of sweat and smoke, and streaked with blood. His skin looked greasy and he had a couple days' worth of sandpapery stubble. His clothes were torn and he had a nasty cut on his temple. 

He was barely recognizable as the clean-cut Cambridge boy from before. He ran his fingers through his hair and they came away filthy. 

"You're sexy," he said to the mirror. "Yes, you are, you're a sexy boy," he sang to himself. He did a little dance. 

Someone knocked on the bathroom door. Eric looked up and stopped dancing. He opened the door tentatively. 

It was Graham. 

"Oh, there you are," Graham said. "We've been looking for you everywhere. Or so I'm told."

"Oh, okay," said Eric. He walked rather awkwardly out of the bathroom and closed the door behind him. 

"Have you been in there all this time?"

"Yes. Er, I'm constipated."

Graham raised an eyebrow. Then he leaned back against the wall. Eric did so too. Graham knew Eric was lying. Eric knew Graham knew. They were both fine with this. 

"You know, I really want a bath," Graham said. 

"Me too. Do you think there's time?"

"I don't know. I think we should get back to the castle soon. Get some sleep and get our shit together in the morning. And you've got to explain it all to that ginger chick."

Eric sighed and rubbed his temples. "Oh, don't remind me."

Mike barged into the room. "Oh, there you are, Eric! We've been looking everywhere for you."

"Told you so," Graham said to Eric. 

"We've got to be going soon," Michael said. "Come on, let's go."

Gray and Eric followed Michael back to the den. Eric's watch said it was 9 AM but this was clearly not the case since it had been dark for hours and they were all falling asleep on their feet. They said goodbye to Aislin and agreed to meet up tomorrow morning. 

They went back out into the bone-chilling damp night to walk all the way to the castle—through the forest and across the empty fields. The sky had grown overcast. It was the kind of atmosphere where anything could pop out from behind a tree and commit unspeakable kinds of evil upon you,mixed with that tired but not sleepy two-in-the-morning haze that made your eyelids feel like wet sandpaper while your mind craves sleep like a junkie jonesing for their next fix. 

Michael stared over at Terry J. The two Terries were walking together. Michael decided he had to apologize to TJ. Besides, Terry Gilliam would probably appreciate any respite from Jones' dragon fangirling. 

Michael made his way in the dark, over gnarled roots and under clawing branches, to Terry Jones. 

"I'm just saying, I think the average percentage of insects in any given amount of Rice Krispies is less than ten percent," Terry Gilliam said. "It stands to reason. You can't build a freakin' company if your product contains insects."

"I think it could be ten," Terry J said. "Rice Krispies share a lot of their properties with bugs. They're crunchy. Uh, they crackle when you pour milk on them." He spotted Michael. "Oh, hey..."

Michael grabbed TJ's sleeve. "Excuse me, Jonesy, could I talk to you alone?"

"Oh. Um, sure," said TJ. 

Mike led him over to the back of the line they were walking in. He stared into the sky and frowned. 

"Something wrong, Mike?" Terry asked. 

"I...I'm sorry," Michael said. "I'm sorry that I treated you like shit and broke your trust like that. It was an awful thing to do. I mean, I was under a lot of stress...no, I shan't make excuses. It was a bad decision and it was my fault and I'm very, very sorry, and I'll understand if you can't forgive me, I'm not sure I could..."

"I get it," Terry said. "And I do forgive you, Mike."

"I hope you'll realize that I—wait, what?"

"I would've done the same in your place. I know I'm jealous and I can't stand the thought of you being with someone else and me, but then none of us are accountable to our own rules. Everyone makes an exception of themselves, even if it's a bit hypocritical. That's how it goes."

"I think I know what you mean."

"Anyways, I'm not going to stop being friends with you because of some silly little thing like that...don't look at me like that, it was silly. Just me being too uptight and you being too stressed-out and needing release."

"I'm sorry," Mike said, looking miserable. 

"I know you are. And I'm accepting your apology."

"Thank you, Terry," Michael said. "Can I hug you?"

"If you don't grab my bum."

"What bum?"

Terry stuck his tongue out and gave Michael a big hug. When they finally broke apart, tears were dripping down Michael's face. 

"What's the matter?" TJ whispered. 

"I dunno. I just hate having to choose," Michael said. 

"You're making the right choice, trust me."

"I don't wanna leave you alone..."

"I'll be okay without you," Terry said. "I don't want you that bad. You're not that valuable of a commodity."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Uh, thanks for making me feel better."

The formation they were walking in had John at the front, then Graham and Eric, then Terry G, then Michael and the other Terry at the rear. Right now Graham was saying:

"You know, Eric, we never got to hear what you missed most."

"Huh?" Eric said. 

"We were talking about what we missed from back home. Sort of to motivate us."

"Oh, I get it," Eric said. "Probably Lyn. And I'm guessing you said David."

"You know me so well," Graham said. 

"I miss the food she used to cook, and the way she used to kiss me....but Graham, this isn't the only reason I miss her. I don't know how long our relationship is going to last."

"That's no way to look at it," Graham said. 

"I don't want to have to leave her, Gray," Eric said. "I love her."

"A man never gets over his first love," Graham said. 

Eric nodded. 

"Look at it this way, though," the taller man said. "You'll always have the memory of the time you spent together, and the knowledge you gained from doing so. And it's pretty clear to me that you're in love with her, but if she doesn't feel that way anymore, it can't be helped."

"Don't say it like that." Eric's voice was thick with angst. 

"I'm sorry. But it's the only way to put it. And I know a guy like you will have no trouble finding a significant other, so you'll just have to find someone who feels the same way you do. Someone who knows your pain and will listen to you when you're sad, and will love you back just as hard as you love them."

"Thank you, I guess," Eric said. 

"And if Lyn doesn't want to share life with you, she's missing out on a lot."

"A lot of garbage."

"No, you're a good husband, Eric. You've got to get it through your head that this simply isn't your fault. You've done everything you can, you're attractive, you've got a wonderful personality and enough money. You clearly care for this girl deeply. You can't do any more."

"I hate it," Eric said. "I hate feeling so powerless like this."

Graham nodded. 

"That's the one thing I can't handle...I remember being afraid of panic attacks, but it's under my control now that I've learned how to bottle up my stupid feelings. I remember being afraid of the other kids in school teasing me because I looked like a girl, but I got it under my control when I realized that what they said didn't affect me. I have my writing under control now, my guitar playing, what I do and where I go...but I can't control this."

"There's lots of things in life you can't control," Graham said quietly. "But you have to learn to accept it. That's how you'll become happy."

"But I don't want to accept it! Everything that's out of your control can hurt you and—and crush you like a bug. I don't want that to happen again!"

"Eric..."

"Don't you have any feelings?" Eric said. "I mean, you can walk and talk and say little witty things, but is there anything actually in there but a soulless robot?"

"I think soulless is going a bit far."

They had reached the edge of the dark forest and the castle was in view, far away on a misty hill. 

"You don't know how it feels to be a child and...and have someone close to you snatched away before it's their time to go."

"Eric, I—"

"You don't know how it feels to have your mother crying in front of you and when you ask her why, she says 'Eric, daddy's gone very far away and he won't be coming back!' You don't know how it feels to be left alone and abandoned by the only people you trust! I can't let this happen to me—"

He was shut up and stopped in his tracks by Graham's mouth pressing against his. He staggered back. Graham's hands were clutching his jacket sleeves and he tasted like smoke and gin and tea...and for some reason Eric did nothing. He felt something uncomfortable arise in his gut, and a foggy feeling of déjà vu. 

Graham pulled away. His deep-set cobalt blue eyes stared into Eric's lighter ones. Eric saw some kind of strange sensitivity that you didn't see much with Gray. Graham saw shock, but also a bit of a smirk, and it was because of this that he knew he could proceed. He sort of laughed under his breath, and wiped his hand on his cuff. "I'm sorry. I'm monumentally drunk. I just...you talk a lot, sometimes."

Eric breathed. The night air was strangely cool on his lips and he wasn't sure what emotion he was feeling. "I know."

They started walking again. They were at the back of the group now, but for some reason not in any real hurry to catch up. 

"You know what?" Eric said. 

"What's that?"

"I think you could've done a better job of kissing me than that."

"Oh, really?" Graham said. "I'll have you know that I'm the best mid-sentence-interruption kisser I've ever met."

"It doesn't look like it. I bet I could do a better job."

"What d'you—"

Eric interrupted Graham by kissing him. He brushed his chin with his fingertips and was vaguely aware on some level of Graham's eyelashes fluttering closed against his cheek. He drew back and grinned. 

"You are indeed a worthy contender," Graham mused. 

"Told you so."

They kept walking. There were so many things Eric wanted to say, so many questions he wanted to ask—both to Gray and to himself—but he couldn't bring himself to spoil the moment. 

God. He shoved his hands in his pockets and nearly tripped over a clod of dirt. He seemed to be falling over a lot lately. No matter; his mind was abuzz. 

His fingers, buried in his jeans pockets, were flickering with golden sparks. 

By the time they reached Lord Iain's castle the atmosphere of camaraderie had left the group, leaving them sort of tired and deflated. They trudged up the spiral staircase and went to their respective rooms. There wasn't a stir from Eidola's room; Eric supposed she was asleep and let out a big guilty sigh of relief. 

Graham shed his jacket and shoes and got into bed. He huddled up next to the cold stone wall in a ball. He looked so small and fragile compared to his usual self. When he wasn't puffed up with sarcastic self-deprecating bravado he was tiny. 

Eric lit a candle beside the bed and killed the one in its sconce before he crawled into bed. The blanket had small black bugs crawling between its fibers. The straw that the mattress was made of poked him in the back and irritated his skin. He couldn't have cared less. He was safe, with Graham, and they had a Plan. And what's more, he had a book shoved under his shirt, and Eric was one of those rare people who know you can conquer the world with a book in your hand. 

He pinched the candle out and snuggled into the filthy blanket. He felt sleepy. 

The rest of the night passed uneventfully, except for one thing. In the wee hours of the morning Eric was awoken by the still-intoxicated Graham sleep-cuddling him. 

He fidgeted and immediately regretted it, but luckily Graham stayed in his quasi-sleep stage. Graham breathed down his neck and tangled his fingers in his hair and Eric, almost frighteningly, did not mind at all. 

"Mm," Graham mumbled. "David, you need a haircut."

Eric's breath caught in his throat. Oh, God. 

But Graham fell back asleep and, after some worry-fraught diatribes thrown against himself, so did Eric. After that, only the cold wet sunrise over the horizon was left to go, and they'd have to go off into the stressful brave new (old) world to fight a dragon.


	11. Love Me Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Python fun fact: Terry Gilliam was class president and senior prom king in high school. http://books.google.ca/books?id=8eDE0hce0kEC&pg=PA65&redir_esc=y

The sunlight filtering through Eric's eyelids reminded him of lemonade. It was sort of cold and pale and bittersweet. 

He sighed. He could smell himself and it was quite unpleasant. What was this, the...third day he'd gone without a shower?

He'd worn his shirt to bed and the little book was still shoved under it. His trousers, jacket and shoes were on the floor. 

He looked behind him. Graham was lying relaxed beside him, ever-present pipe in his mouth. Graham's hair was in a mess. 

Eric blinked sluggishly. Him and Gray in bed together. Had they...? No. Graham wouldn't have done that. 

"Morning, sunshine," Graham said. 

"Mmph," said Eric, who was most definitely not a morning person. Sunrises and morning dew and chirping birds were like communism, he decided; nice in theory, but a pain in the ass in practice. Certainly when sleepy and hungover. Which did make the analogy fall apart a bit, but not much. 

Graham reached over him to the bedside table and picked up a wooden chalice-type thing full of wine. "You look like something that just washed up on the beach, El," he said. 

"At least you're honest." Eric bit his thumbnail absently. He didn't want to get out of bed. If he did have to get out of bed, he'd want there to be a hot shower, and coffee or tea, and Lyn waiting for him. None of these were feasible options. He felt like death warmed over. 

"How do I look?" Graham said. 

"Er..." Graham didn't look half bad, really. Kind of funny with the stubble. Rather filthy. "Why do you care?"

"We queers are very concerned about our appearances, you know," Graham said. 

"I don't know why you have to bring up your raging gayness when we're in bed together."

"It's quite fitting."

"Gray," Eric said, "don't even think about fitting anything anywhere, okay?"

"Oh, heavens no. I wouldn't sleep with you if you were the last man on earth. Darling."

Eric couldn't think of a very good response for that. He wanted to kiss Graham desperately, all of a sudden. Graham seemed beautiful in the revealing light of early morning. He could do no wrong. Eric longed to be prostrate at the man's feet.

He rolled over and shook his head and chuckled to himself. The book poked him in the spleen. 

"What's so funny?" Graham said. 

"Oh, nothin'."

"You havin' a giggle, mate?"

"Yeah, mate. I'm havin' a giggle." Eric smirked. 

"You're a funny lad," Graham said. 

"Thanks."

"I mean, funny peculiar."

"Damn straight."

"Could you make that damn gay?" Graham asked, looking over. "Or damn bisexual, at least?"

Eric laughed. 

"Damn bicurious. Even damn going-through-a-rebellious-college-phase."

"I would gladly make an exception for you, Gray."

"Which is just as it should be...I want breakfast," Graham said. "Maybe an omelette."

"I want something with avocado."

"Oh, ah-voh-cah-doooh," Graham said. 

"I love avocados. They're good for your hair. Lots of vitamin A and shit."

"What, do you put them right in?" Graham looked puzzled. 

"In what?" 

"In your hair. Do you rub them in like shampoo? Is it like dandruff guacamole?"

"No, that's grotty. You just eat them, they have nutrients and stuff. Makes your hair luxurious," Eric said. 

"All of it?"

"I don't know."

"I don't want to end up with luxurious leg hair," Graham said. "Or luxurious pubes. That would just be really weird."

Eric laughed. "Er, what if you, like, braided your pubes?"

"No, Eric no! Why would you do that?"

"Why not?"

"Don't get all existentialist on me, it's too early for that. Besides, we're talking about pubes."

"I don't really mind if someone's hairy or whatever," Eric said. "It's nice, actually. Masculine."

"I'm the only gay one here and I think I'm the straightest one out of all of you."

"That's not saying much. What with that whole thing John and Mike have going on, and then me."

"What about you?" Graham said.

"I'm just me. I mean, I've got a face that screams 'I'm a catcher.'"

"Well, are you?" 

"I don't think so," Eric said. "Although I don't want to knock it 'til I try it."

"You could," Graham said.

"Could I?"

"I'm right here. I'd gladly help you."

"That would involve getting up."

"Not necessarily."

"Stop drinking, Graham. It's like seven AM," Eric said. 

"You're changing the subject," Graham said. 

"No, you are! You're changing the subject from your drinking. I mean, you could at least have the grace to offer me some."

"I really would, but, er, it's mine. It's all mine now." Graham smirked. 

"Give me some," Eric said. "I don't have the courage to face the day. Help me, Gray, I'm languishing!"

"I'll pour some in your mouth," Graham decided. "Say ahhh."

"Don't spill it on me," Eric said. "I'll beat you if you do."

"I won't! I promise. I have very good proprioception skills."

"What's that? Proprio-what?"

"Awareness of the placement of your body," Graham said. "Like how you can touch your nose with your eyes closed, or walk in a straight line."

"No you don't," Eric said. "You're drunk."

"I do. Look at these hands. Steady as a bleedin' rock." He held his hand out for Eric to examine. "I could perform brain surgery right now."

"Fine." Eric laid back. "Aaaah."

"You look so cute with your mouth open." Graham smirked and immediately poured too much nasty wine into Eric's open mouth. Eric choked and sputtered and accidentally spat it out all over himself and Graham. 

"Ewww! Eric!" Graham whined. "It's in my eyes!"

Eric frowned down at his now dripping wet shirt. "Your fault."

Graham sighed. "I won't deny that."

They dried themselves off on the blanket, figuring that it probably wouldn't matter since it was all gross and stained already. Eric reluctantly accepted the fact that he wasn't going to get back to sleep any time soon. They both got out of bed and stretched out and complained. 

Meanwhile, Graham's loud yell of disgust had awoken Michael. He blinked his eyes open, feeling nice and refreshed. The first thing he saw was John waking up beside him. 

Michael yawned. "Hello, John, how did you sleep?"

"Not a lot," John said groggily. He wasn't a morning person either. "You know that."

"Sorry for keeping you up."

"It's alright. It was enjoyable." John permitted himself a small smile. 

"What time is it?" Michael asked. 

"I don't know. Why would I know?"

"I dunno. You seem to know everything."

"I don't have a watch. And I think if I did it wouldn't work properly," John said. 

"Yeah." Mike turned over and buried his face in the mattress. A stray piece of straw was stuck in his hair. 

John plucked the straw out and tossed it away. "Cheer up."

"Easier said than done, John," Michael grumbled. "Besides, you're one to talk."

"Yeah, but I'm normally grumpy. You're not. It doesn't suit you."

Michael made little complainy noises. John pulled him in for a hug and cradled him against his chest. 

"Don't smile," John cooed. He pecked Michael's forehead. "Don't you dare smile."

Despite himself, Michael giggled. John smiled too and kissed him. Michael sighed and snuggled deeper into John's arms, relaxing into the kiss. 

Michael laughed. "John, you taste really bad."

"That's not what you thought last night, now was it?"

Michael rolled his eyes. 

"Give me a break, you git," John said. "I haven't brushed my teeth in two days."

"That's so rude," Michael murmured. "Mm, you were terrific last night, baby."

"Don't call me baby."

"You were terrific last night, Eugene."

"Ugh." John pushed Michael out bed and stood up straight, cracking his back. "I suppose we'd better be off. I wonder if they'd give us breakfast."

"I want you for breakfast, John," Michael said. He flung himself at John and gave him those big dopey Bambi eyes. 

"But we're so busy. We have to practically save the world. Our world, at least."

"You're my world."

"But—"

"Sh." Michael covered John's mouth with his hand. "Shh. Shush. Don't talk."

"Mmphph," went John. 

Michael kissed him too hard and their teeth collided. John grumbled. Michael flung his arms around John's neck and deepened the kiss. John smiled and gave up. 

Graham and Eric were prowling the halls. Eric had accosted a random peasant for food and had received some kind of nasty bread with cheese on it. They went to the Terries' room. Eric put a finger to his lips to pantomime silence and listened at the door. 

"...I'm just saying, I don't think bees even have knees."

"They do. They have joints," Terry J replied. 

"Yeah, but they don't have skeletons. They're invertebrates. They don't have patellas or anything. I think you need patellas for something to be technically classified as a knee," Terry G said. 

"I think the only requirement for something to be a knee is that it has to be the bendy bit of your leg—"

Eric opened the door. "Hey."

Terry Jones was naked in a tub of water, splashing it over himself. Terry Gilliam was dripping wet and mostly clothed, but in the process of pulling his socks on. 

"Oh, hi," Terry G said. 

"Are we ready to get going?" Graham said. 

"Does it look like it?" TJ said. 

"Hurry up," Gray said crossly. He entered the room and sat on the bed. Eric followed him, but stayed leaning against the wall. 

"Do we all know the plan?" Graham asked. 

"Yeah," Terry G said. "We're the ones who thought it up, after all."

"Mostly me," Terry J said. 

"Yeah, true."

"The soap's gone under the bed again, could you get it?"

"Sure." Terry G knelt on the floor with a grunt and fished around under the bed. He retrieved the soap and chucked it at the other Terry. "What about you guys? Are you ready?"

"Yes. Don't sass me like that," Graham said. 

"I'll sass anyone I want! You can't stop me!" Terry G said. He finished tying his shoe and stood on the bed with his arms in the air. "I'm invincible!"

"If you're so invincible, why don't you slay the dragon yourself?" Eric said with a grin. 

"Not that invincible." TG fell back on the bed. 

"You're so juvenile," Graham said. "This plan's going to fail miserably. We're all going to die."

"I think the plan's pretty solid," Eric said. 

"The plan is. These two aren't, except perhaps in the physical sense," Graham said. 

"We know the fucking plan, alright?" Terry Jones said. "Do you?"

"Calm down, Quentin Tarantino," Eric said. "And yeah, we do...I don't even know why we have to come, though, we're not really involved in it. I don't see why we all have to go."

Terry Jones had got out of the bath and was stepping into his boxers. "Look, you're not staying here and eating that chick's ginger pussy while we're out risking our lives, fighting dragons, saving your arse! You're coming and you're bloody well suffering with the rest of us, you hear me?"

"I hear you! Jesus feckin' Christ, it was just a suggestion..."

"Good." TJ started buttoning his shirt up. 

"We should probably get going soon," Terry Gilliam said. "It's a pretty long walk."

"I'll go get John and Mike," Graham said. He left. He walked down the hall, took a drink, and swung the door to John's and Michael's room open. 

Seconds later he was back with the rest of them. "Guys!" he cried.

"What?" Eric said. 

"I...I walked in on John and Michael, doing...it!"

Terry J and Eric both gasped. Terry G said, "What?"

"You know! It! Thingy," said Gray. 

"Huh?"

"Y'know, unlawful carnal knowledge," Eric suggested. 

Terry G tilted his head like a confused puppy. 

"Consummating their relationship," Graham continued. "Propagating the species. Playing hide the sausage."

"They were makin' love, Minnesota," Eric said with a huge grin. "Fucking, I guess, if you prefer the classy term."

"That shit's nasty!" Terry G said. "I didn't come here to listen to that! I ain't got time for this shit!"

"None of us do," Graham said. 

"Did they see you?" Terry J said. 

"I think so," said Graham. "On account of John yelled 'Graham! Fuck off!'"

"Excellent deductive skills," TG murmured. 

"Who was on top?" Eric asked after a moment.

Graham cackled. "Michael."

Eric's jaw dropped and practically hit the floor. "No shit?!"

"I'm just as surprised as you are."

"Could we please change the subject?" Terry J grabbed his jacket off the edge of the bed. "I don't need that mental image."

"Yeah," Terry G said. "I think we need to go over the plan one more time. No offense, Gray, but I'm not too faithful in your, uh, ability to memorize it."

"Offense taken," Graham snapped. 

Of course, they still ended up going over the plan, and Graham still ended up finding a few stumbling blocks in it. Eric sighed and disconnected from the group. 

He looked down at his hands. Occasional sparks leapt from his fingertips. He was wondering how it didn't hurt. He supposed he didn't know much about magic. 

That could be rectified, however. He stepped out of the room, sat down cross-legged in the hall, and pulled his book out...

A little while later, the Pythons had all managed to drag themselves from their beds and into the cold outside. They were still mostly asleep. 

Eric was walking with his hands in his pockets and his mind in the clouds when someone grabbed him from behind. He staggered and his heart skipped a beat. It was Eidola. 

"Eric," she said, her voice hushed. "Where art thou going? Dost thou leave me?"

"I..." Eric cast his gaze toward the others, eyes pleading for help. He received none. He sighed and pulled her aside. 

He hadn't had much experience breaking up with girls, but the small taste he'd gotten he hadn't liked. 

The others watched as he began quietly explaining a slightly abridged version of the events to her. She looked lost. 

"Poor girl," Graham said. "Almost makes you feel sorry for her."

"I think it's perfectly dreadful," Michael said, eyes wide and earnest. 

"Shut up, Michael, I saw you banging John," Graham appended. 

"Would you people stop bringing that up?" Michael snapped. "It's completely irrelevant to the conversation!"

"Yeah, Gray, and it also doesn't even have anything to do with what we're talking about," Terry G said reproachfully.

Graham rolled his eyes. "Okay, first of all—"

"Shut up, Eric's coming back," John said. 

They watched Eric. Eidola had yelled some choice slang words at him and retreated to the comfort of her bedroom. He gave them a rueful smile as he returned from warfare.

"I think she took it rather well," Eric said. 

"Whatever you say," John said. 

"What if her dad gets mad at us?" Terry J said. 

"I have a feeling he'll just be glad I'm out of his life," Eric said. 

"Okay, let's go," John said. 

They kept walking. 

"And so our brave heroes trudged on through the marsh," Terry Gilliam began narrating, "with only their wits to defend them against a ravenous dragon. Will they make it past the dragon? Can they get back to their homes? Could Michael and John possibly get any gayer? Tune in next time for another episode of—"

"Look," John said, pointing, "there's Aislin."

They all looked. A figure in a black cloak with a ratty black bird beside it was examining the marsh ground. It stood up, shoved its hood back to let its long green hair tumble down its shoulders, and waved. They waved back. 

She trotted over. "Hello."

"Hi, we're off to get ourselves violently dismembered, wish us luck," said John. 

"No, wait," Aislin said. "I have a few final words."

"Okay," they said. 

"I would like to wish you all luck," she said. "If you make it past the dragon and steal its egg, you will have proven yourselves more noble than scores of men before you...I have faith in you. I don't know why, I never have had faith in anyone off to try their hand at completing this task before, but I do."

"Thank you," Michael said. 

"And before you go, I have something for one of you," she said. "Graham, step forward."

"Huh?" Graham said. 

"You heard her," said Cawdor. "Go on."

Graham did. 

Aislin pulled a sword out from its sheath under her robe and held it aloft. Graham almost heard a little "shwing!" noise when she did so. It was practically audibly sharp. It glimmered in the early morning light like the eyes of a man who has seen too much. Graham was in love. 

"Kneel," Aislin said. Graham dropped to his knees without question. "By the power vested in me by some spiritual sources I care not to mention at this moment, I bestow upon you this sword forged in the blood of generations of mighty warriors. May your paths be smooth, your troubles be straightforward, your life long and brimming with memories...You can stand up now."

John pulled Graham up to his feet. He staggered and took the sword. 

"What's its name?" he said. 

"Its name?" said Cawdor.

"Yeah," Graham said. He gave the weapon an experimental swing and almost cut Terry G's ear off. "Mystical sword like this's got to have a name, right?"

"Its name is Nigel," Aislin said. 

"What?"

"I said, the sword's name is Nigel," said Aislin. 

"That's ridiculous. You can't name a sword Nigel."

"I didn't name it!" Aislin blustered. "I didn't even want to give it to you! I wanted to give it to Eric."

"Eric? Why Eric?" Graham said. 

"Because...Because no reason. But it chose you."

"Hear that, Eric?" Graham smirked. "I'm the chosen one. I'm the leader. I'm the protagonist!" He swung Nigel the sword again. This time, it swooshed in a circle, leaving a trail of sparkles and catching the light prismatically, and didn't even cut anyone's ear off. "I'm coming to save you, David," he said very quietly. 

"Something else," Aislin said. "Like I said before, the dragon is very cunning. You have to outwit it—"

"You told us this already," Terry J said. 

"Right, right," Aislin said. "I guess I just...well, I'll admit it. I care about you guys. I haven't cared about anything in so long it's weird. I want you to be careful."

"If you care so much, you could just send us back home," Eric said. 

"I can't do that. I'm honestly very sorry," Aislin said, looking very desolate. "It's the rules of magic. You don't get something from nothing. It doesn't work like that. We have to work for our blessings."

Eric was about to say something, but Michael butted in. "Thank you so much," he said. 

She nodded. "Oh, come here, all of you. I need to give you all a hug. I haven't felt this emotional in years."

She did so. Eric was last, and when she got to him, she whispered "I know your secret. Be careful. Very, very careful."

Then she drew back and looked like nothing had happened. "Goodbye, everyone."

"Bye," Michael chirped. 

"And good luck," Aislin murmured as she watched the ragtag band of Pythons traipse off to their almost certain deaths.


	12. Why Don't We Do It In the Road?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Python fun fact: The Who's Keith Moon originally had a part in Monty Python's Life of Brian. In a commentary for the movie, Idle recalls Moon's exuberant attitude toward life and tells about greeting the drummer at the premiere of The Buddy Holly Story the night before his unfortunate death. Moon's part in Life of Brian eventually went to Terry Gilliam. The screenplay was dedicated to him.   
> http://www.thisdayinmusic.com/pages/keith_moon

"I'm hungryyy," Terry Jones moaned as they made their way through the forest. "When are we going to get there?"

"We'll get there when we get there!" John yelled back at him. "For God's sake, and for the sixth time, I don't need you complaining about how hungry you are, or how much your feet hurt, or how Graham won't leave you alone. Just shut up and walk!"

He growled under his breath as he tramped through the forest. He was leading the group. Since Terry Gilliam seemed to know where everything was and what it was called, and Michael had an impeccable sense of direction and a weird intuition for the lay of the land, he'd appointed them Navigation. When he'd done this Graham had asked him to be appointed something. John appointed Graham to be Keeper of Nigel and he was quite satisfied with this in a surly fashion. Terry J wanted to do something but John smugly withheld the privilege from him, as he was rather pissed off. 

Eric didn't seem to care one way or the other. He was at the back of the group, staring down at a book in his hand with a wrinkled forehead and occasionally tripping over a branch or rock. No one paid him much attention. 

Terry J was quiet for a moment. Then:

"John! Johnnnn! Joh—"

"WHAT?!" John howled. 

"Graham's poking me with his sword!"

"That better not be some sort of nasty euphemism," John said, glaring back at them. 

It was not. Graham had the sword and was jabbing Terry with it whenever he least expected. 

"GRAHAM ARTHUR CHAPMAN!" John yelled. 

Graham jumped. "What?!"

"Put the bloody sword away and quit bugging Jones! Terry, you shut up!"

"But—" they both said. 

"I! SAID! SHUT! UP!" John screamed. A dog howled a reply back in the distance. 

They shut up.

Eric was staring at a rune on the page. He squinted and mumbled something to himself. 

His eyes glazed over as he passed into the haze of concentration that was becoming easier to slip into every time he cast a spell. He was holding a violet in his left hand, and he held it up and forced the pent-up energy into it. It streamed through his fingers and into the flower, which immediately turned into a purple vole. 

"Oh," he said, a bit startled. He dropped the vole by accident and it ran away. He smiled a bit. 

Terry Jones looked over at him. "What're you smirking about?"

"Nothing, Tezza," Eric said, fluttering his eyelashes. 

"What's that book in your hand? Where'd you get that?"

"Er..." Eric couldn't think of a good excuse, so he pretended to trip and fall down. This had the effect of TJ giving him a weird look and Michael rushing over to help him up. 

"Eric, are you okay?" Michael said. As was becoming disturbingly common lately, Eric sighed wistfully and wondered if Mike knew how pretty he looked. 

"Oh, uh, fine," Eric said. 

Michael brushed some leaves off Eric's jacket. "You've got to be more careful, we can't have anyone else spraining anything..." He stopped mid-sentence and started staring weirdly at the top of Eric's head. 

"What?" Eric said. "Is there a bug on me?"

"John?" Michael said.

"What?" 

"Come here."

John grumbled and walked over. Michael pointed at the top of Eric's head and said "Look at that. Isn't that odd?"

"What?" Eric started freaking out. "It's a bug, isn't it?!" He combed his fingers through his hair. 

John moved Eric's hands down and held them there. "Gray," he called, "come take a look at this."

Graham paused from swooshing his sword to come stare at Eric. "I say, that is rather strange..."

The Terries snuck up behind Eric so that he was completely surrounded by people. Eric started to panic. "What's wrong with me? Why are you all looking at me?...It's cancer, isn't it? I've got a bloody great tumor sticking out the back of my head, don't I?!"

"No, no," Michael said, "it's just, er, your hair's turning blue."

"What?"

"The roots of it," Terry J said. "It looks like your hair was dyed blond but the roots started growing in and they were blue. You haven't been dying your hair, have you?"

"Never in my life," Eric said. 

"Gray, what is this?" John asked Graham. 

"Uh...chemical imbalance?" Graham looked doubtful. 

"Mind if I touch it?" Michael asked Eric.

"Er, go ahead."

Eric steeled himself for the nasty feeling of someone groping his scalp with their dirty grubby paws. He'd always hated people touching his hair. He'd barely been able to sit still through lice checks in primary school. It was getting worse now that he was growing his hair out. Everyone seemed to want to touch it. 

The nasty feeling didn't come. There was a feeling, but it was pleasant and relaxing. He let Mike play with his hair and run his fingers through it.

Michael looked up at Eric. "It feels completely normal."

Eric blushed and gave Michael a big stupid grin. Michael raised an eyebrow, but smiled back. 

Great. Just great. Eric didn't know if that kiss between him and Gray meant anything at all, but he'd liked it. Lyn seemed to hate his guts, but he was still in love with her. And now this...

"What's wrong with him?" John said. 

Eric snapped out of it. "I have a hypothesis," he said. "And a confession, first. Er...I've been learning magic."

Everyone stared. He felt compelled to talk more. 

"I borrowed this book from Aislin, and I've been teaching myself spells in my spare time. It's fairly easy, actually..."

"Okay, time travel I can deal with," Graham said. "Mystical ouija boards I can deal with. Dragons I can deal with! But Eric bloody Idle teaching himself spells? How come as soon as I'm done coping with whatever this stupid world flings at me, it just gives me ten other things to try and wrap my mind around?!"

"It's okay," John murmured.

Graham sighed. "I just...Fuck. I just want a drink."

Eric's hand burrowed into his jacket pocket. He yanked the flask out and chucked it at Graham, who fumbled it and then caught it. 

"Wha?" Graham said. "Hey, I thought I threw this into the forest the day before yesterday."

"Well, I went back and got it." Eric made a sarcastic smile. "It was expensive."

Graham went off and sat on a log and attempted to drink himself into oblivion. Eric envied him. 

He turned his attention back to the group. "Anyways, Aislin had green hair, right? And she's a sorceress. She must do magic all the time. Maybe magic makes your hair change colors."

"I'll buy that," Michael said. 

After everyone crowded around and got a chance to manhandle Eric's hair, which Eric did not enjoy at all, they kept trekking on through the Sinister Forest. They stopped for lunch in a little glade beside a pond. Michael had taken a bag and brought more peasant-y food in it. 

"Now," Michael said as he handed something nasty and gristly to Graham Chapman, who took one look at it and gagged, "we just have to keep heading west and we should be there soon. Terry, how long will it take?"

Terry Gilliam stared at the grey sky and shrugged. "Could be a few hours, could be more."

"Maybe we should stop somewhere and sleep," Michael said. 

"I wish we'd got horses or something," John said bitterly. He stretched his legs out and winced as his sore knee twinged. 

"I don't think that village had a horse to spare," Michael said. "I don't think they even had a sheep."

"I would ride a sheep if I could. My leg's doing something odd," John said. 

"I bet Jonesy's had lots of experience riding sheep," Graham said with a really stupid grin. 

"I've had it up to here with the sheep jokes," Terry J said. "Just because I'm Welsh doesn't mean I fuck sheep, okay?"

"Sheep fucker," Graham said. 

"Why don't you make fun of him?" Terry J pointed at the other Terry. "He's from Minnesota. At least I'm British."

"Uh, what can we make fun of Americans for?" Graham asked. 

"They like to put cheese on everything," Eric suggested. 

"Cheese fucker," Graham said. 

"I am impartial to some nice sharp cheddar," Terry Gilliam said with a massive and unimpeachable smile. 

"See, you can't mock him," Graham complained. "He just takes it. Jonesy, now, there you get a nice reaction."

"Baa," Eric baaed quietly in agreement. 

"Shut up! Fuck off!" Terry J yelped. He flung a stick at Eric and a piece of bark at Graham. "I've had enough of you! Leave me alone!"

"See what I mean?" Graham said. 

"Oh, leave him alone," Michael said. 

"Don't tell us what to do."

"Please," Michael said. "We have to at least try to get along! Solidarity and all that. United we stand, divided we fall..."

"I'd rather fall than stand with him," Eric whispered.

"Fuck off, you revolting salami!" Terry J yelled. 

"Please," Mike moaned.

"Fine!" Graham said. "Fine."

"Thank you," Jonesy sulked. 

Michael sighed and leaned on John, who was eating a piece of nasty bread. "Jun..."

"Yes, Mikey?" John said. 

"Hi."

"Hello," John said. 

Michael hugged John and gazed up into his eyes, biting his lip. John frowned. 

Graham gave up on attempting to ingest a chicken bone. He leaned back against a tree and sighed. 

Eric walked over to the pond and kneeled beside it. He squinted at his reflection in the glassy water. Sure enough, his hair seemed to be growing in with a light turquoise color. He pulled at it, puzzled. It felt pretty nasty since he hadn't showered in a couple days. 

He grunted, pulled himself up, and went to sit back beside Graham.

"I don't know what to believe anymore," he murmured. 

"What you mean?"

"Just in general. This whole scenario seems implausible. I don't want to think about it, it hurts my brain, but I can't stop thinking about it. It's like some sort of nasty festering sore, I can't stop picking at it. Metaphorically, of course."

Graham handed the empty brandy container back to Eric. He was looking down at his feet, almost looking ashamed. It didn't suit him. 

"I know," Graham said. 

"I really want to go home. I want my guitar."

"It'll be over soon. One way or another."

Eric looked up into Graham's heavy-lidded cloudy blue eyes. The younger man's lips parted slightly. He looked perturbed. 

"One way or another," he said to himself. "That's quite deep."

Graham shrugged philosophically. 

Eric bent down and picked up a twig. "Wanna see a trick?"

Graham gave his affirmation. Eric concentrated on a spell he'd done a couple times before. He frowned and his fingernails sparked. A flower sprouted from the end of the twig. Eric handed it to Graham. 

"Weird," Graham said. He turned the twig over and over in his hands, examining it. 

"That's mostly the kind of stuff I know," Eric said. "Parlor tricks and stuff. But I think it's still pretty neat."

"It is," Graham agreed. He tucked the twig in his pocket. "Anything else cool?"

"I can turn a flower into a vole."

"Why a vole?" Graham asked. 

"I'm not sure, it was in the spell. Perhaps because they're similarly sized," Eric said. "And the book shows how to turn water into wine."

"That's my kind of magic."

"Just for an example of what you can do, you know," Eric said. "It's pretty basic stuff."

"Yeah, but that could turn potentially dangerous," Graham said. "What if you turned all the water in someone's body into wine? They would die."

"Are you sure they would die? Maybe they'd just get quite drunk."

"Eric, I know what I'm talking about," Graham said, giving Eric a Look. 

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Eric said. 

"So when are you going to teach me some of that stuff?" 

"Oh. We could try right now. It gets a while to get used to it, though. It takes a knack."

Someone came up behind him and tapped his shoulder. Eric wished people would stop coming up behind him. That is, until he turned around and saw that it was Michael Palin. 

"Oh, hello," he said quietly. 

"I just wanted to let you both know that we're leaving now," Michael said. "You seemed rather caught up in whatever you were talking about."

Eric and Gray looked around. John and the two Terries were already walking out of the clearing.

"Oh, shit," Eric said. He got to his feet and helped Graham up. Graham swayed unsteadily a bit, but got his footing back. They followed the rest of the group away from the clearing. 

"Maybe I can show you later," Eric said. "It takes a lot of concentration."

"Well, I can already tell I'm going to be bad at it, then."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's like...like learning to play football or something. Some people are born with a natural athletic ability, and some people are born with a disadvantage. Maybe they're got flat feet or they're really wimpy or something. Anyways, even if you have flat feet that won't prevent you from playing football. It'll just put a little block up, and we can overcome blocks."

"What if you've got no legs?" Graham said. 

"Okay, now you're just pulling my simile apart," Eric said. 

"I mean it. You can't play football without legs."

"What are you getting at?"

"I don't have any legs," Graham said. "Mentally, I mean."

"Of course you do. You've got the most legs...I mean, you're the smartest person I know."

"You must not know a lot of people, then."

"You're just being ridiculous now!" Eric said. "You're brilliant and you know it."

"How come I only got a 60 in Chemistry, then?" Graham said. 

"At least you took Chemistry," Eric said. 

"How come I'm drinking myself to death, Eric?" Graham said in a hushed voice, staring angrily down at his shoes. "How come I get delirium tremens if I go a day without a drink? What kind of sane person would kill their brain cells off like that?"

"I never said sane. I said intelligent."

Graham rolled his eyes. 

"It's true," Eric said quietly. "No one's paying us to be sane. But they will for...for bloody Mrs Premise and Mrs Conclusion. Is that sane? No. Is it brilliant? Very. Is it funny? It's hilarious. That's what you're like."

"You use too many similes." Graham had given up on self-pity and was reluctantly smiling. 

"There's no such thing."

"Maybe you're right, I guess," Graham said. "I mean, I am good at some things."

Eric couldn't help but rush in and pull Graham in for a kiss. He felt Graham's fingers wind around in his hair. It felt nice. 

They stared at each other. Sparks had definitely flown. 

"I'm always right," Eric finally said. "And you're good at whatever you put your mind to."

"Okay," Graham said.

They kept walking. 

They walked for what felt like hours and hours. Eventually they reached the end of the forest. It ended gradually, until they were walking on a plain of shale or some other flaky grey stone. Little shrubs popped up from cracks in the ground. The land looked flat for miles and miles around. The sun was beginning to set, they all had blisters on their feet, and there was no mountain in sight. 

"Are you sure we're going the right way?" John asked Michael. 

"Absolutely," Michael said. Terry G nodded in agreement. 

"I vote we stop for the night and camp out," Eric said. "All in favor say aye."

Four aye's rang out over the plain. Everyone looked at Terry J, who had remained silent. 

"I just want to see a dragon," Terry J moaned. 

"It's settled, then," John said. "Let's stop right here."

They stopped. John sat down on a piece of upturned rock and stretched his bad leg out. Michael took both the Terries to look around for wood to start a fire. There was no shortage of dried-up dead shrubs and tumbleweeds on the arid rock plain, but Michael wanted to find something that would burn for longer. 

Eric sat down on the ground, and Graham sat down beside him. They took out, respectively, the primer of magic and Nigel the sword. John leaned back and watched the sun set in the west. 

Graham was swinging the sword around idly. "Shwinggg," he said under his breath. "Woosh."

Eric made a tiny plant grow out of the rock. Graham looked over at it. 

"Hey," said Graham. "I have an idea."

"Yeah?" said Eric. 

"You should enchant this sword," Graham said. 

"Oh. Like, with a conflagration spell?"

"Conflagration spell?! What's that?"

"You can enchant a weapon to light things on fire when you smite them."

"That sounds really cool, do that," Graham said excitedly. 

"Well, it's not until near the very end of the book..."

"Fuck the book!" Graham said. "I want a fire sword!"

"Okay!" Eric found the page of the book with the conflagration spell. It was the third from last one. He felt a bit nervous. The rune looked complicated and alchemical. "Er," he said, "I'm not too sure—"

"Do it, you yellow-bellied skink!"

"Okay! There's no need to call anyone a skink," Eric said. He took the sword and lay it on the ground before him and gently placed his fingertips upon it. He closed his eyes. His brow furrowed in concentration. 

The sword appeared to twitch, and for a moment it glowed bright with the color of magic. It was done. Eric moaned and fell back, his eyes rolling back in his head. 

"Fire sword!" Graham yelled, brandishing Nigel. "I've got a fire sword!"

"Look what you've done to Eric!" John knelt beside Eric and tried to pull him into a sitting upright position. Eric kind of flopped around. John held him up and his head dangled back like he was passed out. "You've killed him!"

"Oh." Graham squinted at Eric. "He appears to have gone into shock."

"He's so pale," John murmured. "We've got to do something. I think we should feed him."

"What if he chokes on it?" Graham said. 

"Well, we can't have him dying from blood pressure or whatever he's got! Look at him! He's sweating so much."

"Okay, first of all, that's gross. And second of all, I don't even know what to say about your blood pressure comment..."

"Shut up! Go find Michael, we have to give Eric something to eat."

"Hold your fucking horses, John. I think you should find Michael. I'm the one trained in medicine here, I should stay here and take care of Eric."

"Fine! Just make sure he doesn't bite his tongue off!" John yelled as he began running away. 

"That's a misconception!" Graham called after him. He sighed and sat beside Eric. "Sorry, old chap," he said offhandedly. 

Eric's leg twitched. Then he blinked. Graham stared at him, fascinated. It would be interesting to note the effects of magically induced syncope on—

What was he thinking? Eric was his friend. He couldn't just sit by and treat him like a case in school, this was an actual medical emergency. 

Graham pulled his peasant tunic off and wrapped it around Eric to keep him warm. He checked his pulse and everything seemed normal. His forehead felt hot and when he opened his eyes again they were glassy. 

"Hello," Eric slurred. 

"What's your name?" Graham said. "What day is it?"

"I'm Eric, Graham, you know that," Eric said. He was coherent, although he sounded almost drunk. "An' I'll be fucked if I know what day it is."

"How are you feeling?"

Eric licked his lips. "I dunno. Okay. Pretty bad. Thirsty."

"John's bringing you something to eat and drink."

"That's unchar...uncharacter...weirdly selfless of him," Eric said. 

"You passed out, Eric."

"Oh," said Eric. "You have pretty eyes, Graham. They're the same color as the sky."

"Oh, er, thank you..."

Eric tried to sit up. Graham helped him. Somehow this ended up with Graham cradling the feeble Eric in his arms. Eric leered at him. 

"Don't move," Graham said. 

"Fuck you, don't tell me what to do," Eric grumbled. He could barely sit up or look around, though.

Graham covered Eric's eyes with his hand and then uncovered them. They seemed to dilate and constrict properly. His fever seemed to be quickly dropping, too. 

"What're you doing?" Eric giggled. "You're silly."

"Making sure you don't die," Graham said testily. 

"I...I love you. I love you so much."

"I love you too."

"Come here and kiss me."

Graham frowned. 

John returned with Michael. Michael dramatically flung himself onto the ground beside Eric. 

"Oh, Eric!" he said tremulously. "What's wrong? What happened to you?!"

"Fire sword," Eric mumbled. 

Michael looked puzzled. He reached into his bag and pulled out a canteen with water in it. "D'you want some water?"

"I don't want water," Eric slurred. "I only want you!" He pulled Michael into his arms and gave him a big sloppy kiss. Graham pried Michael away from Eric. 

"Eric!" Graham snapped. 

"Ahhh!" Michael yelled. "No! AAAH!" He freaked out and ran away. John looked sort of frightened, but mostly puzzled. 

"Mph," went Eric. 

"What'll we do with him?" Graham said to John. 

John shrugged. "Give him something to drink." He pointed at the canteen, which Michael had dropped. 

"Right," said Graham. He picked the canteen up, unscrewed the lid, and tried to force water into Eric's mouth. Eric was being uncooperative. 

"Why's your shirt off?" John asked Graham.

"I like it that way!" Graham barked. 

They finally convinced Eric to drink some water, lie down, and shut up. The two Terries came back with some pieces of wood, dragging a reluctant Michael along with them. Michael looked shivery and traumatized by Eric kissing him. 

Terry Gilliam dropped his pile of slightly damp logs beside Eric with a grunt. Terry Jones got some dried-up twigs and things and started trying to arrange all the wood into a teepee shape so they could start a fire. 

John got Michael to calm down and have a seat. They all ate the rest of the food while Eric slept the magic-induced high off. 

Graham stared at Nigel the sword all the while he was eating. He was longing to stab something. 

"We should start a fire soon," Michael said. They all nodded in agreement. 

Graham stood up and brandished Nigel. "I'll start the fire!" he said. 

"What?" Terry Jones said. 

"Me!" Graham said. "Arthur, King of the Britons. I'll start the fire." A strange look was burning in his eyes. 

"He's gone off his rocker," Terry J whispered to the other Terry, who replied "Yeah, and he's completely crazy, too."

Graham jumped over to the pile of wood and smote it with his sword. It violently burst into flames, which were a bright turquoise color at first and then faded to a more normal yellow. 

Jonesy fell over. "Shit! What the fuck!"

"That's what Eric's passed out from?" John said incredulously. 

"Yeah, isn't it awesome?" Graham said. "Let's get rid of all the dragon egg plans, and I'll just kill the dragon myself."

"Woah, we can't go off the plan now," Terry Gilliam said. "Besides, we made a deal with Aislin."

"Plus dragons breathe fire, and you're not supposed to fight fire with fire," Jonesy said. 

"I think that's just a metaphor," John said. 

"Yeah, it'll be fine," Graham said. 

"He's got a point, though, Gray," John said. "That sword is just for defensive purposes. We don't know what the dragon is capable of. If the enchantress couldn't have got rid of it that easily I doubt we'll be able to."

"I'm the best, though!" Graham said. "I can do it! I'm special, Eric told me so!"

"Yeah, and look what happened to him," Gilliam said. They all looked over at Eric, who was blinking and mumbling and trying to sit upright. 

Graham muttered to himself and sat down dejectedly. "It was worth a try," he said miserably.

Michael cuddled up to John. The sun was just going to go down, even though it was a bit early for it. He felt nice and warm, and it made him a bit sleepy. He was all tuckered out from exploring the forest all day, so he quickly fell asleep leaning on John's shoulder. 

"That's adorable," Terry G cooed. 

"Shut up," John replied. Michael stirred restlessly in his sleep and John's eyes immediately widened as he realized he'd disturbed the smaller man. "Ooh," he whispered. "Ooh. Don't wake up, I didn't mean it..."

Michael mumbled. "I...I love you, John." Then he turned over and went back to sleep. 

It could've just been the ruddy firelight, but to the just-awakening Eric Idle it looked like John was blushing. 

Eric sighed and brushed his greasy hair out of his eyes. "Fuck," he said. His mouth felt dry and sort of like his tongue was made of felt. His head pounded and his ears rang. "What happened?"

"Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't Graham's fault," Graham said nervously. "I'm sure that whatever small part he played in the event was motivated by purely altruistic, er, motives."

Eric glared at him. "It was a rhetorical question. I remember everything perfectly—you bastard."

"You kissed Michael," Terry Jones said. 

Eric peered between his slim fingers (he was covering his face with his hands) at John, who was giving him a weird Look. "Sorry," Eric mouthed.

"I have a fire sword," Graham said. 

"I know. I made it. I metaphorically gave birth to it."

"That must've hurt," Terry G said with a concerned look. "You were pregnant? It didn't show—"

"Look, you idiot, you've confused metaphorically and literally again," Terry J whispered. "Metaphorically means a non-explicit figure of speech, drawing a direct comparison between two things. Literally means neither exaggerated nor inaccurate. Right, Eric?"

"Bingo," Eric said. He stretched and yawned. His stomach growled. 

"I know that, Terry!" Terry G said. "You've told me this literally a billion times!"

The other Terry rolled his eyes.

"Eric?" John said. 

"Yeah?"

"You're hair's nearly halfway blue," John said. "It stops about four inches down from the roots. I thought you might want to know."

Eric could see blue-green hair out of the corner of his eyes. He scowled thoughtfully. 

"If we get to sleep now," Terry Jones said, "we can wake up earlier in the morning, and we'll have more time to look for the dragon's lair."

"I'm fine with that," Eric said. He felt horrifically tired. 

"Me too," John said. He clambered down and cuddled up on the ground beside Mike. They were on a piece of rock that was fairly sheltered from the wind due to the weird angle of the rock beside it, plus which there was some moss growing on it. This looked like it would make a suitable pillow. 

Michael woke up for just long enough to make himself into the little spoon to John's big one. Then he fell back asleep. He did snore a bit, but even his snoring was polite, small, and cute. 

"Whoever wakes up first wakes the rest of us, alright?" John said. They all agreed. 

The two Terries both slept beside John and Michael. They all figured it would help to conserve heat if they stayed close together, but they weren't willing to stay too close. Terry Jones slept on his back, mouth open to let all sorts of nasty bugs fly in. Terry Gilliam had his body contorted into a weird position, face smushed into the ground. They both snored dreadfully. 

Eric grunted as he stood up to fetch one last piece of wood for the fire. He threw it on, making sparks fly, which gave him déjà vu. He looked at the group. Everyone except Graham Chapman was asleep or nearly so. Graham was sitting and smoking, arms folded over his chest, doing the whole fascinatingly stern and close-mouthed bit. 

Eric sat beside him. "You look down," he said. 

Graham shrugged and puffed. 

"I can help with that." Eric pulled something proudly out of his pocket. 

"Is that pot? Where'd you get that?"

"I can make plants grow," Eric said. "What d'you think I'm gonna do?...Here, let's try and use your pipe. Put that out. This is pure Northern Lights."

"You're a bad influence on me," Graham said as he handed his pipe over. 

"That's what I'm here for." Eric lit up with some assistance from Nigel the magical fire sword. 

Usually, Stoned Graham was practically the same except more talkative. He already had no filter once you got him going. However, tonight...

"Eric?" Graham said. 

Eric looked over from attempting to blow smoke rings. "Yeah?"

"I...I don't feel good." Graham looked pale and shaky. "I don't want to be here, Eric. Why do I have to be here?" He took a trembling breath. "My heart's beating so fast."

"Are you okay?"

"Anxious." Graham's mouth was dry. 

"Well...I'm here for you, man. Breathe with me." Eric hugged Graham and breathed deeply. "Come on, breathe. It'll pass."

He'd never in a million years thought he'd have been the one helping Graham. Graham, the capable intelligent adult who obviously knew so much about panic attacks and things, having told Eric how to manage them, was totally flipping out. 

Eric could feel Graham's breaths deepening. He leaned his forehead on Graham's shoulder. "You'll be okay, I promise you. You're safe. I'm here."

"I..." Graham panted. "What if we die tomorrow, Eric? What if we get,  
er, charbroiled by the dragon?"

Eric was silent. 

"I don't want to die." Graham hiccuped. "I don't want to die, not here, not like this. Who'll remember me?"

"Millions of people, I'm sure. You are a television star, after all."

"No, the real me. Real Graham. Behind all the alcohol and the pretentious stupid bullshit. No one will remember that. I'm not memorable. I'm boring."

"You shut up! I can't believe you'd say anything like that."

Graham sighed. "I'm afraid." He crouched down on the ground and curled into fetal position, resting his head on his knees.

"Er...A wise man once said to me, happiness lies in accepting that there are things you cannot change," Eric said. 

Graham sighed. "I hate accepting things." 

Eric wasn't sure what to say. "We'll be fine, I'm sure. We've got a plan." He clumsily plumped down on the ground beside Graham. 

Graham stayed quiet for a bit. "I don't know why I'm so afraid." He leaned against Eric. 

"I guess your feelings don't have to make sense, though. I get why you're afraid. Especially, you know, if you're drunk and/or stoned."

"Not that drunk." Graham laughed. 

Eric didn't quite know what to do, but he had a sudden, powerful urge to cuddle up to Graham. He was struck once more by how tiny Graham looked.

He leaned his head against Graham's chest and looked up. Graham was making that funny little expression he had when he felt unguarded, with a little smirk and his eyes downturned. 

Eric studied Graham's face. He'd done this before, but never thought he'd looked so lovely. Graham had a handsome aquiline nose, deep-set pale eyes, and a small mouth. His fine sandy-blond hair was in a complete nasty mess but Eric didn't mind. He leaned in and kissed—well, not so much kissed as gently booped his mouth against—Graham's neck. 

"Sod off," Graham murmured benevolently. The anxiety was quickly fading to be replaced by internal emptiness, which didn't sound like much but was relative bliss. 

"No," Eric said. He cuddled up against Graham. He was full of fuzzy warm feelings. 

They kind of sat there in a red-eyed haze, sleepy but not tired yet. 

"I never told you how much I looked up to you, Graham," Eric said. 

"What d'you mean?"

"Sort of like, erm, an idol," Eric said. 

"Really? Wow."

"No, I dunno, that's not quite the word I've been looking for," Eric said. "More like...like a paradigm. A model."

"I'm honored," Graham said. 

"That makes me sound like a total creep, doesn't it?" Eric said. "God. Forget I ever said anything."

"No, I think it's rather sweet, actually," Graham said. "I don't really know what you mean, though."

"I...You know what I mean. I'm not being particularly abstruse."

"I don't know why anyone would look up to me," Graham said. 

"I've had enough of this whole self-deprecating bit," Eric said. "You know people are going to look up to you. You're intelligent, and funny, and well-spoken. People are going to remember you in fifty, a hundred years! They're going to remember the extroverted comedic genius and activist! I just don't think they'll remember the shitty weirdo guitarist who followed him around."

"You don't mean yourself by that, surely?" Graham said. "You must be talking about Neil Innes."

"I do mean myself. And don't call me Shirley," Eric said. 

"You're not a weirdo...Well, I take that back. You are. We all are. That's a good thing." 

Eric looked up and blinked. 

"And I'm just as much of an introvert as you are. And you're as smart as I am. Just in a different way. You use big strange words like, er, abstruse, and paradigm. Which I don't even know what that means."

"Sorry. I am being a bit verbose."

"Never apologize for what you are, Eric," Graham said with a smile. 

"You need to take that advice too."

"Well, I'll agree to stop putting myself down if you do," Graham said. 

"Deal," Eric replied. 

They were quiet for a bit, watching the smoke. 

"Got nothin' to talk about now," Eric said. 

Graham shrugged. 

"Did you want me to teach you magic?"

"That's your thing," Graham said. "I don't feel I'd be very good at it."

"Okay, then. Man, I'm hungry," Eric said. 

"Maybe you could make a broccoli plant grow or something."

"I hate vegetables."

They stayed quiet after that. Then Eric steeled himself to do something rather stupid. He closed his eyes and began tracing his fingertips over Graham's thigh.

He was sitting right beside Graham, practically pressed against him, and he swore he could feel Graham gasp...well not really so much a gasp as sort of inhaling deeply. But it was a reaction. 

"The others asleep?" Graham asked. 

"Yeah," Eric said. 

Terry Gilliam was talking in his sleep. "No!" he muttered, frowning. "No seagulls can have my pizza! Fuck off!" His whole body violently twitched. He kicked the other Terry in the back. Terry J growled and rolled over in his sleep. 

Eric snickered. "What a bunch of fuckin' jabronies."

"That feels nice," Graham said quietly. He stretched out and then pulled Eric a bit closer. Eric smiled and kept tracing circles on the taller man's leg. 

"C'mere," Graham slurred. He turned Eric's head and gave him a kiss from behind. Neither of them seemed to want to stop kissing, so they didn't. Graham's hands held Eric, one on his shoulder, one on his hip. Everywhere Graham touched Eric, his skin seemed to tingle with some kind of strange fire. Eric forgot all thoughts of holding a grudge against Graham for making him cast a fire spell and knocking him out. They both got lost in a haze. 

Eric moved his hand further up Graham's leg and came across Something. He rubbed it gently through Graham's trousers. He had this funny half-embarrassed half-nervous feeling but for some reason it was urging him to go further. 

He could feel it twitch under his hand. "Oh, God," he moaned. 

Graham kissed his cheek, and whispered "You smell horrible, Idle."

Eric burst out in giggles. "So do you, Graham. That's what happens when you haven't had a bath for several days."

"Several? Has it been several already?"

"I think several is, yunno, a relative thing," Eric said. "Going three-and-a-half days without a shower certainly counts as several days, in my opinion."

"Makes sense."

Eric fumbled with Graham's belt and managed to get it off. He slowly pulled Graham's fly down. He was struggling to control himself from ripping Graham's clothes apart like a kid unwrapping presents on Christmas, because he didn't think that would feel pleasant...Actually, this was kind of like how Eric had unwrapped his Christmas presents when he was a kid. He had a pretty obsessive way of doing it. He'd carefully peel the tape off and then take the wrapping paper off and fold it into a neat little square to be tossed in the trash later—

"Oh, God," he gasped again. Graham had snuck one hand down the front of his trousers and was reciprocating the movements. "Oh, fuck, that feels—ooooh, what are you even doing?"

"Trade secret," Graham whispered. Eric snickered. 

He leaned back against Graham and closed his eyes. "Fuck," he repeated. "It's been so long since, uh..."

"Since you've been taken care of," Graham suggested. 

"Yeah, let's put it that way."

"It's been like one day, you realize that?"

"Well usually I get it a lot more than that...Don't look at me like that! I'm popular with girls for some reason."

"Any of them as good as me?"

"I strongly believe that no, they are not...oh, fuck..."

Graham peppered kisses down Eric's neck. "I think we should go off a little. So as not to wake any of the others up."

"I agree."

They both got up and, holding their trousers up with their hands, walked off along the rock plain. They found a copse of straggly trees and sat down beside it to continue. 

Graham yanked Eric's trousers off and pushed him down onto the ground, holding him down by his shoulders. He had his knees between Eric's legs, spreading them further apart. They both just looked at each other and panted for a second. 

"Graham," Eric moaned, and it felt good to the other man to have his name cried out in bliss like that. "Please."

Graham leaned down to kiss Eric, meanwhile sneaking his right hand down toward Eric's crotch. Eric instinctively wrapped his legs around Graham's waist, and threw his head back when the other man wrapped his hand around his cock. 

"Calm down," Graham said. "We're only just beginning."

"Fuck me."

"What?" 

"Fuck me, Graham." Eric pulled the other man closer and kissed him slowly. 

"Mm...I can't."

"Why not?"

"No lube or anything."

"I don't care."

"You will. I don't want to hurt you. No one wants damaged goods," Graham said. 

"Oh, so I'm goods, now? Is that all I am to you?"

"Yep."

"You skuzzy bastard," Eric said with a smile. 

"...I have something to tell you," Graham said. 

"Oh, what? And keep it snappy."

"Okay, er...Snappy version is, you fucked Michael Palin."

Eric sat bolt upright and accidentally painfully banged his forehead against Graham's. They both winced and cursed. 

"I what?!" Eric said when he'd recovered. 

"Ow...You slept with Michael Palin, a few months ago. You were celebrating the end of the last season of Flying Circus and you got really, really monumentally high and fucked him in a bed and breakfast. And then you went out and told the first person you saw, which happened to be Terry Gilliam, and you know how he can't keep anything a secret...so eventually we all knew except you, because you forgot."

"How could I forget something like that?" Eric asked. 

"You couldn't even stand up straight. You kept going on about how you could hear strawberries."

"That does sound like me," Eric said sadly. "I just wish....I wish I could remember. What's the point of fucking someone if you can't even remember? I've had a crush on him for ages, I wish I'd known."

"Aw, that's cute," Graham simpered.

"Don't you simper at me, you weenie."

"No, I totally get it," Graham said. "He's a fine piece of ass. Anyway, where did we leave off?"

Eric was about to protest, then shrugged, and rushed into Graham's arms. Graham pinned him against a tree and started kissing him. 

Eric giggled breathlessly. "Hey...remember when you invited us over and came out, and then you had to explain what being gay meant to me?"

"I'll never forget. That was the single most awkward moment of my life...well, second most awkward."

"And now look at me." He slid his hands up Graham's shirt and ran his hands along his body. "You've ruined me."

"I'm glad," Graham said. "You're quite the catch, you know. Hey, you should come over for dinner with David and me sometime later."

Eric raised an eyebrow. "Are you asking what I think you're asking?"

"I don't know, am I?"

"I'm not coming over for a gay ménage à trois with you and your boyfriend...Well, maybe."

"Partner," Graham said. 

"What?"

"He's not my boyfriend," said Graham, "he's my partner."

"What are you, cowboys?"

"It's like he's my husband, except, y'know, more gay."

"That's shit that they won't let you get married," Eric said suddenly. "I never thought that was fair."

Graham shrugged. "Well, life isn't fair."

"It should be, for you. I can't imagine if I fell madly in love with someone and we couldn't marry just because of what parts we had."

"Believe me, I've driven myself mad over it," Graham said. "I've sort of given up, honestly. I mean, we've got it pretty good, David and John and I. I don't wanna complain."

There was a short pause. 

"Well, that was uplifting," Eric said. 

"Sorry. You brought it up."

Graham got on top of Eric again. Eric pulled Graham's trousers down and wrapped all his arms and legs around him. Eric was panting and moaning within minutes. 

Graham drew his hand away from Eric's cock and trailed it down a bit lower, then unceremoniously pushed two precum-covered fingers inside him. Eric squeaked. 

"You feelin' okay?" Graham said. 

"Yes, I think so," Eric panted. 

"Good," Graham said. "Just relax and tell me if it hurts, okay?"

It did hurt—Eric had never really done anything like this before, ever—but he didn't say a word. It felt kind of good, too. He bit his lip and squinched his eyes up. Graham laughed. 

"Ahh...wot?" Eric said. 

"Your face."

"What about it?"

"It looks funny."

"Fuck you," Eric laughed. "Ohh, oh fuck that feels good!"

"You've got quite the potty mouth on you."

"I know—oh, do that again," Eric begged. He squirmed and moaned as Graham pumped his fingers inside of him. 

"Don't cum, don't you dare," Graham said. 

"Oh, fuck you, don't tell me what to do," Eric said breathlessly. "God, that's great, why didn't anyone tell me about this?" He pushed his hips up to try and get the other man's fingers deeper inside of him. 

"They're all, er, homophobic," Graham said. He wrapped his other hand around Eric's cock. "Does that feel good?"

Eric moaned incoherently. His fingers clutched Graham's waist and his fingernails made red scratches down his back. 

"Don't stop," he whispered. 

Graham smirked. Eric didn't know how he could possibly be so composed. 

"I will if I want," Graham said. "Don't tell me what to do."

"Please," Eric panted. 

"I could keep you on edge for hours like this," Graham said. Eric looked up at him. His hair was dripping with sweat and stuck to his face. "You wouldn't come until I told you to, and by the time you did you'd be so desperate for it that you'd do absolutely anything I wanted you to."

"Uh, here's an idea, how about you don't?"

Graham rolled his eyes. He did listen, though. He quickened the pace of his strokes and watched Eric make faces. 

Eric pulled him in close and kissed his mouth. Within moments he felt the hot tingling feeling of his orgasm rushing up to meet him, and he leaned back and moaned as he came over Graham's hands. 

Across the rock plain, Terry Gilliam woke up. He rubbed his eyes and squinted. He could hear moaning in the background. He sat up. 

Two blond- (well, one blond and one half blue-) haired figures were together off in the distance, going at it like rabbits. 

Terry G snickered to himself. He reached over and punched the other Terry until he awoke. 

Terry Jones stirred and made some nasty snorting noises. "Wot?"

"Look," Terry G said. He pointed. 

Terry Jones followed his gaze. "Is that..."

"Graham and Eric," Terry G said. 

"Ew." Terry J rolled over to go back to sleep. 

"No! No, remember that bet we made?"

"Ugh." Terry Jones fumbled in his pocket and pulled out three cigarettes, then reluctantly handed them over. Terry Gilliam smirked and pocketed them. 

Meanwhile, Eric was enjoying the pleasant post-coital chill that was spreading through him. He opened his eyes and saw Graham, still smirking like the cat that got the canary. He sat up and blinked. He couldn't believe this had happened. 

"Hi," he said awkwardly. He fumbled to get his trousers done up. 

Graham nodded. 

Eric wasn't quite sure about what to say. He knew what to do, though; he crawled up toward Graham and started kissing his tummy and thighs. 

Graham murmured, "I'm cold."

"Let's fix that." Eric ran his lips up Graham's cock. Graham sighed and played with Eric's hair. 

"Bet you've never fucked anyone with blue hair before," Eric said with a grin before he started kissing down Graham's shaft.

"No, but there was an exceptionally attractive transsexual Canadian bloke with green hair," Graham said off-handedly. "Pretty much every natural color, too...and, er, half-shaved off and Jheri curl and bald..."

"Bald?" Eric glanced up from his ministrations to give Graham an incredulous look. 

"It was actually all shaved off, I think the fellow's hairline started receding and he didn't like where it was going."

Eric shrugged. 

He felt Graham curl his fingers through his hair and it made a warm happy feeling spread through him. He took the other man's cock in between his lips and closed his eyes. He'd never done this before.

It felt good, pleasuring Graham, almost as good as it did having it done to himself. He decided there was really no better turn-on than making someone else moan his name. 

After a couple minutes of messing around Eric had finally figured out how to do it all. He almost felt regretful when he heard Graham whispered "I'm gonna come..."

Fuck, Eric thought, that's irrationally hot...He sighed and closed his eyes and kept on sucking him off. 

"Fuck," Graham moaned, "David," and Eric felt his seed hit the back of his throat and he withdrew. 

He was spitting and gagging when he realized something. "Wait, what did you call me?"

Graham made an "oh, shit," face as the realization of what he'd done hit him. "Er..."

"You called me David!" Eric wiped his mouth off on his sleeve. 

"I didn't! I, er..."

"Yes you did, you bleedin' liar!" Eric got to his feet. "What's that about?"

Graham looked miserable. "I don't, I dunno..."

"What the fuck?" 

"I don't know!"

"Is that all I am to you?" Eric said. "A replacement for your boyfriend while he's away? You can't even bother to remember my fucking name when we've known each other for years?"

"Well, I'm just not used to you, that's all," Graham said. "Er, but I'd like to get used to—"

"Stop trying to dominate the conversation, it's not gonna work," Eric said. "And I can't believe you're hitting on me after that. Am I just another name to check off on your list?"

"I..." Graham was at a loss for words. 

"I can't fucking believe you. I should've known this was a bad idea from the start, you insecure prick!" He started to stomp off. 

Graham stood up, trying to pull his clothes back on. "Wait! Come back!"

"Go to sleep, Graham!"

"Oh..." 

Graham walked back to the campfire and huddled into a sad little ball beside it. He stared at it and contemplated his life. The two Terries pretended to sleep when actually they had been awoken by the drama and had watched it eagerly. 

Eric went off into the forest.


	13. Strawberry Fields Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Python fun fact: The programming language Python was named after Monty Python.   
> https://www.python.org/about/gettingstarted/

Terry Gilliam awoke. He saw the grey sky above and wondered where he was and how he'd ended up outside. Then he remembered. 

"Ugh," he said. He sat up and every single disc in his spine cried out in outrage against him. Once this had been done, he studied his surroundings. 

There was still the uneven rock plain with little shrubs, heather and twisty trees growing out of it. There was still the dark Sinister Forest behind them. There was still the maze of upturned rocks before them, guarded by mist. 

He looked around. John and Michael were cuddled up together, asleep. Graham was frowning in his sleep. Eric had come back to sleep but was off a ways, with a strange looking thing made of stone that strongly resembled a game board beside him. Terry Jones was close to him, snoring very loudly. 

Terry Gilliam looked around. He found a leaf, came back, and put it in Terry J's mouth. 

Terry J snored, sputtered very loudly, and sat up. He coughed and spat out the offending bit of vegetation. 

"What are you doing?" he growled. 

"I'm supposed to wake you up," Terry G said. 

"You could've done it more nicely," Terry J said. 

"Yeah, but where would be the fun in that?"

Gilliam had that impeachable smile again. Jonesy sighed, stood up, and cracked his back very loudly. He smelled himself and made a face. 

Meanwhile, Terry G walked over to John. He kneeled beside him and contemplated his sleeping angry face. He glanced over at Jonesy, then back at John. He leaned in very slowly and licked John's forehead. John stayed asleep. Jonesy snickered. Terry G licked John a few more times before he woke up. Eyes still closed, John swiftly rabbit-punched Terry Gilliam. Terry G flew back with a yowl. 

John sat up and wiped his forehead clean. "What are you idiots doing?"

"Waking you up like you said," Terry G said, feeling his jaw. That was definitely going to leave a bruise. "Also, you made me bite my tongue!"

"Maybe that'll teach you to not go around licking people," John said, rolling his eyes. "I'll wake up Palin, anyways, you won't do it right."

He looked down at Michael, who was leaning against him with his eyes closed, peacefully sleeping. John frowned. Then he leaned forward and licked Michael's forehead. 

Terry Gilliam mumbled angrily. Michael blinked awake and looked at John with confusion. His eyes were huge and screamed betrayal. 

"John?" he said with a pout. 

"Er, yes?"

"Did you just lick my forehead?"

"Er..." John glanced back at the Terries. "Er, the answer to that question would indeed be in the affirmative."

"Sometimes I don't know," Michael muttered. He sat up and, without notice, started vehemently kissing John. The two Terries both made disgusted faces and turned away. 

Terry G went over to Graham. He leaned in very close and whispered, "Graham!"

Nothing happened. 

"Graham Arthur Chapman!" Terry whispered very quietly, his mouth one centimeter from the other man's ear. 

Nothing happened. 

"GRAHAM CHAPMAN!!!" Terry Gilliam bellowed at the top of his lungs. "WAKE UP!" He kicked Graham in the kidneys. 

"AAGH!" Graham said. Still half-asleep, he got to his feet and thumped Terry Gilliam over the head. Terry moaned in pain and surprise. Graham sat back down. 

"I hate you all," Graham murmured. 

"He's still upset after his breakup," Terry Jones whispered. 

"Oooh," Terry G said. "Hey, Graham. How's things going between you and Eric?"

"Fuck off," Graham said. 

The Terries giggled to themselves. 

"Wait..." Graham said. "How do you know that?"

Oh, shit, thought both the Terries. 

"Were you spying on me?" Graham said. 

"No!" Jonesy said. "Certainly not!"

"Would never dream of doing such a thing," Gilliam added. 

"No...Well, maybe a little," Terry Jones said. 

"Quasi-spying at most, nothing to be alarmed about," Terry Gilliam said. 

"Maybe...Yeah. Yeah, we were spying on you."

"Sorry!"

"You're fucking awful, you know that?" Graham said. He rolled his eyes and lay back down. "Wake me up when I'm dead."

The only one left asleep was Eric. However, as Terry Gilliam sidled over to him, he discovered that he wasn't actually sleeping. 

Eric was staring off into the forest. He had a small rectangle of stone with a letter carved on it in his hand. He had huge bags under his eyes. 

"Uh, hey," Gil said. "You're awake?"

Eric slowly nodded. His hair was all blue now, except the tips. 

Something was very off about Eric. Everyone gathered around him. He was in a daze. 

"I said I was sorry," Graham began hesitantly. "And believe me, I don't do that often..."

"I'm fine," Eric said. His voice seemed to be coming from very very far away, perhaps from somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse. 

"You sure?" Michael piped up. 

"Yeah," Eric said. He cleared his throat and some of the color seemed to come back into his voice. "Anyone wanna play Scrabble?"

"What?" Terry Gilliam said. "What are you talking about?"

"Scrabble," Eric said. He held up the little bit of rock with a letter carved into it and they all realized what it was: a Scrabble tile. An M, to be precise. "I've been up all night working on it," Eric said. "Who wants to play me?"

"We don't have time for this," John said. "We've got to go. God knows how much longer we'll have to walk to get there..."

"Okay," Eric said. "Only been up all night doing it." His hair was in a complete mess and his eyes looked vacant. "Don't care about it much. Don't care about anything much now..."

Michael helped Eric to his feet. "There, there," he said softly, patting Eric's arm reassuringly. "It'll be alright. We'll be home soon."

"Home," Eric said. 

"That's right," Michael said soothingly. 

"We don't have time for this!" John said. "It's not in the schedule."

"Oh, stuff your schedule!" Michael said. "Eric, what's wrong?"

"Tired," Eric managed. 

"We'll get there soon," Michael said. He bent down and picked up the Scrabble board. "Hey, this is quite good. John, come look at this..."

"All night," said Eric. 

"Let's go," Michael said. 

They took off, heading west. 

Terry Jones was tired. They were all tired, but Terry particularly felt like he wanted to fall over on the spot and sleep for a hundred thousand years. He wasn't sure he'd ever want to wake up. His eyelids felt damp and heavy and he was too tired to start a conversation. 

He looked up and saw Michael and John holding hands. It felt like a knife going through his heart...no, that idiom didn't really do it justice. 

It felt like he'd just been given poison and then informed that he was going to die in a couple hours. He had this kind of blind misanthropic rage sitting in the pit of his stomach, making him antsy in a cold way. He wanted to hit someone, or maybe lock himself alone somewhere forever and ever and never show his face again. 

He bit his lip and wiped the tears that were blurring his vision like Vaseline on a camera lens away. 

And it was partly because he knew he didn't deserve Michael. Michael was cute, intelligent, and so goddamn funny. Terry was nothing, he decided. 

He never looked in the mirror and felt satisfied with what he saw. He felt like half the jokes the other guys made went over his head, and were probably about him. He wasn't sarcastic enough, or clever enough, or good enough at puns. 

It was no wonder Michael didn't want him. 

But he still wanted Michael, more than anything in the world...maybe not more than Alison, but certainly in a different way. His normal happy equilibrium had been thrown off. 

God, he thought, you're making a mess of yourself. Calm down, you're making a big deal out of nothing, Michael still likes you. 

But when he looked over, that pretty smile shining from Mike's eyes hadn't been put there by Terry, it had been put there by John. Some stupid story John was telling, with that stupid little smirk John only wore when talking to Michael...

"...And I told him, 'Bugger off! We can rent a mule from hundreds of other places! I certainly won't be taking my business here any more,'" John said. 

Michael burst out laughing again. "Oh, gosh! Really?"

"Yes. We're not all as polite as you, Mikey." Upon seeing Michael laughing, John permitted himself a small smile. 

"You tell the most wonderful stories, John," Michael cooed. He stood on tiptoes and swooped in to give the taller man a peck on the cheek. "Tell me another one, please."

"Alright, if you insist...Well, a very long time ago in New Zealand, Graham Chapman and I went into a restaurant—"

"Hey, you're telling him my omelette story!" Graham said. 

"I was there too."

"It's my story. I always tell that story."

"Well, I was there too," said Cleese pedantically, "so technically it was half mine—"

"Well, it belongs to me!"

"How can a story belong to someone? It's simply an event. You can't own an event."

"No need to argue, please," Michael said. His green eyes went wide and serious. John thought they looked very lovely, glimmering like jade in the dawn light. "Why don't you both tell the story?"

"Okay," John said, giving up. 

"We were in New Zealand—" Chapman began. 

"And we went into this restaurant," John said. 

"We rode there on bicycles," Graham added. 

"Look, that's an irrelevant detail, it's got no bearing on the plot whatsoever," John said. 

"You've got no bearing on the plot whatsoever!"

"I do!" John said. "I'm one of the main characters."

"He's just angry because he looks funny on a bicycle," Graham told Michael. 

"I absolutely do not. I look quite dignified."

"And you didn't have a shirt on," Graham reminisced. "You were wearing this teeny little bathing suit and you had tan lines, dreadful ones. Although your legs are something else entirely—"

"Irrelevant details!" John said. "Anyway, we went into the restaurant—"

But the story was never finished, because at that moment there came into view from behind the mist...

"The Sinister Mountain!" Terry Gilliam cried, pointing at the purple-grey mountain in the distance. 

"The what?" Graham said. 

"You remember," Terry Gilliam said, "the mountain which the evil dragon whose egg we're supposed to be stealing inhabits."

"Oh, that sinister mountain," said Graham. 

"Now, we all remember the plan, correct?" John Cleese said. 

"Yes," they all sighed. 

"I still don't see why we can't just use this," Graham said, whipping out Nigel the sword. A trail of blue fire shimmered in the crisp air behind it. 

"Put that away," John said severely. 

"Oh, well, it was only a suggestion," Graham said, "no need to get all angry at me, you know. Only trying to help."

"The entrance of the mountain must be over on the other side," said Eric, who was feeling much better by the way. 

"Hear that, everyone?" John said. 

"Yeah," they chorused. 

"So, let phase one of the plan begin...now."


End file.
